Princess of Wolves, Prince of Snakes
by IWantColouredRain
Summary: After the Lions' coup, Aegon VI flees with his wife, mother, uncle and cousins in search of allies and safety in order to regain his throne. But there is only one place to go: The Winterlands, the only part of Westeros to remain independent of the Iron Throne. Hiatus until summer
1. Background Info

**The North:**

*The Old Tongue is based on Gaelic, Rhoynar (the language of Dorne) is based off Spanish.

*The North is a lot more powerful in this story than in canon (and independent, of course). The Free Folk (different to the wildlings), the Iron Islands and the Three Sisters are all vassals to the Stark of Winterfell.

*The population is a lot bigger now, and they have a standing army. Moat Cailin is always on alert for an attack from the south. Due to the North having expanded its territory beyond the Wall, they retain some of their magic and are aware of the wight/White Walker threat. Dragonglass is very valuable in the North, and they have several teams dedicated to tracking down any trace of it and mining it.

*The North and South have been having an on-again, off-again war since the Conquest.

*The North has Griffins, and a select section of the army uses them, but they are more scouts and archers than fighters.

*The First Men still have some magic, and follow the traditions of their ancestors, sacrificing criminals to the weirwoods, etc. The Old Gods are more prominent in this world.

*'Burner' a derogatory term for the Andals used by the First Men. The First Men's devotion to their gods borders on fanaticism, as their gods are active and it strengthens their faith. They see themselves as the 'last bastion of defenders' for the Old Gods.

*The faith of the First Men is based heavily on the Ancient Celtic/Viking religion and a lot of their myths in this mostly come from Ancient Ireland/a bit of the Vikings and other myths and legends that I adjust for the story.

*Green Men are common and highly revered by the First Men. Greenseers are also more common, and act similar to Septons or Septas, in that they preach the tenets of the Old Faith. All followers of the Old Faith put great stock in the words of the greenseers, and revere them highly. It's a great honour to be offered the chance to become one of them. Every Northern child is tested for the ability. Magnar Howland Reed is the current High Greenseer.

*The North do not believe that bastardy is shameful, at least not for the child. The shame is on the parent if they break vows of fidelity, or if they do not support their child.

*Elders are the people responsible for teaching the children of the North about their history, traditions, etc. They can be men or women. There is one in every village and keep. Old Nan is Winterfell's Elder.

*The population is much larger here, so the Watch is stronger. All castles are manned and the men who join have a choice of spending a decade there or a lifetime. Only lifers can be commanders of any rank, and the Watchers are allowed to marry and have children, who are automatically bound to at least a decade of service.

*In 1557 BC, King Artos XVII 'the Scholar Wolf' Stark set up the University of Winterfell. He believed the education was vital for everyone, no matter their rank or gender, and made a law that every child attend a school from the age of five to ten (one for boys and a separate one for girls) where they are taught the basics of reading and writing as well as history and Northern traditions and stories by Elders, and everything else by Scholars, the Winterlands' equivalent to a Maester. After finishing at the school, the students can apply to go to the University and study there as an Apprentice Scholar. If they cannot afford the fee, they can use the Conclave to appeal to the Starks to fund their apprenticeship. They have to work off the loan and keep their work to a certain standard, however. If they cannot do so, they will no longer be funded, and still have to pay off their debts. The Maesters and their Citadel are sometimes accused of stealing the idea for their organization from the Scholars of the University.

*Houses in the North bear the title of 'Ancient' (for any older than 400 years) and/or 'Honourable' (awarded and stripped by the Courts depending on the House's deeds.)

*Life in the Winterlands centres around the tenet that 'the lone wolf dies but the pack survives'. Everyone works hand-in-hand, regardless of rank or feuds, to keep their kingdom strong. It is tradition in the North that every noble child goes to foster at Winterfell for half the year, every year, so as to foster bonds whilst still keeping close to their family. They call themselves the Wolf Pack, and the heir(ess) of the Starks is the Alpha.

*In the Winterlands (The North, the Iron Islands, Hardhome-Stark territory beyond the Wall, and the Three Sisters.) betrothals can only be made official after a lady turns fifteen, and she must be sixteen to marry, as Northern girls tend to flower very young.

*For the Winterlands, inheritance is equal-primogenture. For the Starks, any of the next generation can be declared Crown Prince(ss) but they must pass certain trials first.

*King Rodrik Stark didn't just win Bear Island, he conquered the whole of the Iron Islanders. At first they were belligerent, but now they are some of the Starks' most loyal. The Drowned God is still worshipped, but only by a small section of them.

*Several Houses, the Royces, Daynes, etc, all fled to the Winterlands to escape conversion when the Andals came.

* * *

**The Army has several different sections:**

**The Warg Warriors:** This is the second most elite part of the Army. There are a thousand of them, and their base is on the coast of Skagos. They are all wargs, taken from their families at age five and raised to be utterly loyal to the Starks. Each is devoted to their duty. It's a mixed gender unit. Every child in the Winterlands is tested on their fifth nameday, regardless of gender or birth and it's considered the greatest honour one can receive to be chosen for the unit. While marriage and families aren't forbidden to the members of the Warriors, they are not common, as the Warriors consider it a hinderance to their duty.

**The Wolf Guard:** This is a section of the Warg Warriors, assigned as guards for the Starks.

**The Griffin Riders: **This is the North's 'air force'. Five thousand years ago, Magnara Berena Greystark went on an exploration Beyond-the-Wall and found some. She brought them back and informed King Theon III of what she had discovered. He then sent more of his people out to catch and train them, and they have thrived ever since. The Griffin Riders were key in keeping the Winterlands independent of the Iron Throne.

**The Ice Guard:** This is the law enforcement of the Winterlands. They ensure that no crime is committed and hunt down any outlaws or brigands, not fight battles. If they discover a criminal, they try them (as required by King Rickard XVI, who made a law ordering that all people be tried and found guilty before being executed, even if caught in the act.) and then, should the criminal be sentenced to death, they are sacrificed to the weirwoods according to First Men law. The Ice Guard also oversees any criminals sentenced to hard labour, ensuring they don't escape (the North doesn't send criminals to the Wall). Many landless second or third, so on, sons join this unit to be able to support their families.

**The Twilight Troopers: **The Twilight Troopers are _the_ most elite part of the Army, selected from among the Warg Warriors' best recruits. They are a force dedicated to both reinforcing the Night's Watch, defending the settlements beyond the Wall and fighting the wights. All are armed with dragonglass weapons, all are able to warg into at least three animals and are hardened warriors. They are nearly undefeatable. Only White Walkers can defeat them, and they always put up a fierce fight.

**The Army of the North: **This is the main part of the Northern Army. In 595 BC, King Edric Stark XX decided to figure out a way to increase the population of the Winterlands, seeing as there was so much land unused. He then made a law stating that any family with more than five children would be eligible for a decrease in the amount of taxes they had to pay, the amount lessening a bit more for each child, though there remained a minimum. This caused a huge baby boom. The consequences of this was the need to find a way to employ everyone. Edric's son, Edric XXI, came up with the idea of having a standing army. They would be trained and kept ready to defend against any attacks, unlike the disorganized and untrained smallfolk levies of the other kingdoms. People flocked to the army, and their constant training has made them the greatest army in Westeros. It can field around 130,000 men altogether, slightly more than the Reach. However, it is not undefeatable, and they are careful not to become arrogant.

**The Navy of the North:** Although Brandon the Burner foolishly destroyed the entire Northern fleet in grief after his father's disappearance at sea, his son was not so short-sighted. Knowing that their lands would be vulnerable without a sea force, King Rickon restored the fleet, naming his second son Benjen as its' Admiral. Benjen took the name of 'Spraystark' and married Asha Greyjoy, becoming the founder of House Spraystark, which ever since has always been involved in the Navy, along with House Starstark, founded by Princess Alayne Stark (the first ever matrilineal house) and the Iron Islanders.

**The Conclave: **These are inspired by the Cortes of Aragon during the Medieval Age. They are summoned every year, and are filled with representatives of each village in the Winterlands, as well as the nobles. It gives a chance for any grievances to be aired before the King and/or Queen, who is bound by oath to listen and heed it. If a noble is abusing his smallfolk, for example, then if proof is presented before the Conclaves, the Stark _must_ punish them. The Conclave also have to be summoned for the creation of any new houses. They award and strip the title of 'Honourable House', 'Ancient House', etc. If a Stark is abusing their power, the Conclave has the power (with a unanimous vote) to force them to abdicate in favour of a more worthy Stark.

* * *

**House Stark:**

**King Eddard XXIX: **The secondborn son of King Rickard XXXXX and his wife, Queen Lyarra. Just after his brother married Dowager Princess Barbrey Stark née Ryswell, war broke out between the South and North again, due to Aerys' actions. King Rickard and Prince Brandon were both killed in the fighting. Ned was already Crown Prince, as his brother had failed to be deemed fit for the Weirwood Throne, so he ascended to the Weirwood Throne between the king and prince's deaths. He established a peace with King Rhaegar after Aerys was found dead on the Iron Throne (same way as Maegor) but remained heavily distrustful of the South, like most Northerners. He married Ashara just after the end of the war, and Sara was born ten months later.

**Queen Ashara Stark née Dayne: **A beloved queen, the elder daughter of Lord Edric Dayne and his wife, Lady Alayne. She is a fierce and strong woman, devoted to her family and the Old Gods. Very charitable and an excellent partner to her husband. She was called the 'Star of the North' as a youth, and retains her beauty despite her age and pregnancies.

**Crown Princess Lysara 'Sara' Stark: **A strong-willed young lady, her reputation was dealt a blow when she returned from a trip to the Free Cities after an affair with a southron. She has tried desperately to redeem herself ever since, and is devoted to the Winterlands. She repelled the White Walkers when they attempted to attack the Wall, as they do every few centuries.

**Princess Arya Stark: **A spirited girl interested in fighting and exploration, she intends to go exploring when she is grown, and wishes to never marry. Very proud and occasionally arrogant, but kind-hearted and loving to her people. She is her sister's most dedicated supporter.

**Prince Brandon Stark: **Bran is asweet and thoughtful boy, well-loved by everyone at Winterfell. He has a fascination with climbing and exploring along the walls and ramparts of the castle. Like his siblings, he is also dutiful and tough-minded, but also possesses a propensity for adventure and excitement; he yearns to see far off places one day and is a greenseer.

**Princess Serena Stark: **Serena is five years old, sweet and gentle. She is very close to Mariah.

**Lady Mariah Snow: **Sara's three-year-old illegitimate daughter. Precocious and angelic with a mischievous streak. She often reminds her mother of her father, whose identity she doesn't know.

**Lord Robb Snow: **The bastard son of Brandon with an unknown woman. Clever enough, but a prodigy in anything related to battle. He was raised as a sibling to Sara, who is only a few months younger than him, and adores her. He is next in line to be Commander of the Winterlander Army.

* * *

**House Targaryen:**

**King Rhaegar Targaryen (deceased): **A mournful man, and a weak king. He was adored during his youth as hope for a life out from under Aerys' tyranny, but proved to be a procrastinator, waiting and making excuses for years before at last supplanting his father. He was obsessed with an old prophecy, believing himself to be 'the Prince That Was Promised', and then changing his mind and deciding that he was the prince's father. Because of this, he married two women. He was a neglectful husband and father too, preferring to spend all his time studying.

**Elia Targaryen née Martell: **A kind, clever and loving woman. The much preferred of Rhaegar's consorts. To appease Dorne on his second marriage, she was also the only one to be named 'Queen'. She was humiliated and hurt by her husband's actions, and to try to keep her children's positions secure spent a lot of time and effort doing charitable work and such to make the people (noble and common) love them more than Cersei's children. Her health has been fragile since her early birth, but she manages.

**Cersei Targaryen née Lannister: **(formerly) One of the most beautiful women in the Kingdoms, three pregnancies and years of bitterness have lessened that beauty, though she is still gorgeous. She has been obsessed with being Queen and marrying Rhaegar since childhood, but reality didn't live up to expectations. She has a (far too) high opinion of her intelligence, is very ambitious and resents that her gender bars her from inheriting her family seat. She's been in an incestuous and adulterous relationship with her twin brother since childhood. She temporarily stopped the relationship for the early part of her marriage, before resentment over Rhaegar's neglect made her re-start it. She is extremely arrogant, thinking that Lannisters are practically gods, and firmly believing her son should rule instead of Aegon. Her best virtue is her love for her children, whom she would do anything for.

**Rhaenys Arryn née Targaryen: **Eldest child of Rhaegar and Elia's only daughter. She is very like her mother in looks and temperament, save for having a habit of holding grudges and her father's purple eyes. Like her brother Aegon, she considers her Uncle Oberyn to be more of a father than Rhaegar. She is hapily married to Artys Arryn, heir to the Vale, and has just borne their first child. She is the most loved of the princesses, as Daenerys and Valaena were never so charitable.

**Aegon Targaryen:** Eldest son of Rhaegar and Elia's only son. He is Rhaegar's heir, a cause of much resentment from his stepmother and half-siblings. He outright hates his father and Cersei for humiliating Elia, and like Rhaenys thinks of Oberyn as a father. He is considered to be the perfect prince, handsome, intelligent, a strong warrior/tactician and charismatic. He is married to Margaery Tyrell, who is pregnant with their first child, but is in love with Lord Renly Baratheon, a childhood companion.

**Aenar Targaryen: **Eldest of Rhaegar and Cersei's children and Rhaegar's second son. He has blonde hair with green eyes, but the rest of his features are classic Valyrian. He is completely insane and sadistic, plus stupid and spoilt. At five, he cut open a pregnant cat and brought it to show his father. Rhaegar was appalled and slapped the child, forbidding him to repeat the action. But other than that, the king did nothing in spite of rumours that Aenar was mad like his grandfather. Due to Cersei, Aenar genuinely believes that he is the rightful king due to being part Lannister, and that his elder brother stole his title.

**Valaena Targaryen: **Cersei's only daughter, she has been compared to her ancestor Good Queen Alysanne in looks (she is pretty, not beautiful), but she isn't as compassionate or clever as the late queen was. She is rather spoilt, but isn't cruel, unlike her elder full-brother. She loves fashion and music, and her best skill is harp playing. She is said to play as beautifully as her father, able to reduce hardened warriors to tears.

**Aelyx (Waters) Targaryen: **A chubby version of his uncle-father Jaime, Aelyx is in reality the bastard son of Cersei and Jaime. He's a spoilt but sweet boy, with a love of cats. He prefers reading to fighting, and would like to go to the Citadel one day, but his mother forbids it.

**Viserys Targaryen: **Prince of Summerhall, he is mad, but not as mad as his father or nephew. He spends most of his time secluded in his keep, disdaining court and its intrigues. He was very vocally against his brother's second marriage (possibly because the more children Rhaegar had, the further from the Throne he was.) and refuses to acknowledge Cersei or her children, labelling her a concubine and the children bastards.

**Daenerys Tully née Targaryen: **Lady of Riverrun, wife of Edmure Tully. She dislikes her husband, but grudgingly acknowledges that she could have done worse. She dotes on her children and, like her brother Viserys, scorns Cersei as a whore and the children as bastards.

* * *

**The Ancient and Most Honourable House Dayne:**

Magnar: Arthur Dayne (Regent for his nephew)

Magnara: Serena Icewolf (widow of the previous heir, Magnar Alaric, killed fighting some wildlings)

Heir: Edric Dayne

**Their keep is 'Starmount', formerly the Dreadfort.**

**Honourable House of Starstark (matrilineal):**

Magnara: Sybelle Starstark, Admiral of the North's Western Fleet, age 34

Magnar: Artos Icewolf age 39

Heir: Lynara Starstark, age 13

Others: Rodrik Starstark, age 15, Jorelle Starstark, age 10

**Sigil-a white direwolf with stars on a midnight blue background**

**Words-** _**We follow the Diamonds of the Sky.**_

**Specializes in seafaring, along with the Seastarks, with whom they have a rivalry that alternates between being friendly and vicious. Their keep, Wolf's Way, is a Harbour city on the coast of the Stony Shore.**

**Lystark (newest cadet house):**

Magnar: Benjen Lystark, younger brother of King Eddard Stark. Warden of the Neck, received Moat Cailin as his seat after its' previous Lord Rickard Wolfguard died heirless (end of House Wolfguard) in the war against Aerys. Age 30

Magnara: Dacey Lystark née Mormont, age 32

Heir: Rickard Lystark, age 4

Others: Lyarra Lystark, age 18 moons

**Sigil-A grey wolf's head surrounded by winter roses on a black background. **

**Words-We Guard the Passage.**

**Their keep is Moat Cailin.**

**Honourable House of Seastark:**

Magnar: Brandon Seastark, Admiral of the North's Eastern fleet. Age 57

Magnara: Meriah Seastark née Royce. Age 52 (had 10 miscarriages/stillbirths out of 13 pregnancies, very fragile woman)

Heir: Rodrik Seastark. Age 32

Others: Yohn Seastark of the Ice Guard, age 27. Maege Seastark, age 18

**Sigil-a ship with a wolf's head on the prow, on a sea-coloured background.**

**Words-We Rule the Waves.**

**Specializes in Sailing. Has a rivalry with House Starstark. Their keep, Sailor's Cove, is a Harbour city near Widow's Watch.**

**The Ancient and Honourable House of Whitewolf:**

Magnar: Torrhen Whitewolf, age 39

Magnara: Lysana Whitewolf née Seastark, age 30

Heir: Markus Whitewolf, age 17

Other: Serena Whitewolf, age 15

**Sigil- a white wolf on a black background with gold edging.**

**Words- We See The Gods**

**Descended from Brandon Snow, brother to Torrhen Stark. They were entrusted with the method of creating glasshouses by the Last King of Winter, and as such are the richest House (save for the Starks themselves) in the North. Their keep, 'The White Wolf's Den' is midway through Moat Cailin and White Harbour.**

**The Ancient and Honourable House of Icewolf (matrilineal):**

Magnara: Alyssa Icewolf, age 68

Heiress: her granddaughter, Erena Icewolf, age 14

**Sigil-A sword of ice gripped in the teeth of a grey wolf with a black background**

**Words-First to Charge, Last to Retreat**

**Their keep is called 'The Sword's Sheath' and based on the Bay of Ice**

**The Ancient House of Greystark:**

Magnar: Rodrik Greystark, age 49

Magnara: His wife and second cousin, Emelia Greystark, age 33

Heir: Eddard Greystark, age 16

**Sigil-a white direwolf on a dark grey background (reversed Stark colours)**

**Words-Ever Loyal**

**Their keep is the Grey's Haven, between the Stony Shore and Sea Dragon's point.**

**The Honourable House of Frostfang (matrilineal):**

Magnara: Alysanne Frostfang, age 48

Magnar: Brandon Amber, age 50

Heiress: Raya Frostfang, age 29

Others:Raya's husband, Benjen Harclay age 29, their twin daughters Melessa and Maege age 6

**Sigil-a white fang on a blue background.**

**Words-Strong As the Winter Winds**

*****These are the main ones who might be mentioned, I will add to it as needed.

*House Blackwood was never exiled in this, and of the canon extinct houses, only the Towers, Fisher of the Stoney Shore and Flints of Breakstone Hill are gone. The Boltons are extinct.


	2. The Dragon's Flight

**Disclaimer: I don't own ASoIaF/GoT.**

**Chapter One**

**The Dragons' Flight**

_**The Red Keep: 1st January 303 AC**_

_Oberyn:_

_The Red Keep was living up to its' name, at any rate,_ Oberyn thought grimly as he cut down another of the red cloaks. Ser Barristan had also downed his own opponent, leaving the hallway clear at last.

"Hurry, Your Graces," the Commander of the Kingsguard urged the royal family.

Their group was made up of Oberyn himself, members of the Kingsguard Sers Barristan Selmy, Garlan Tyrell and Oswell Whent, the now-King Aegon VI and his wife Queen Margaery, as well as his sister Elia and Oberyn's eldest three daughters. He said a silent thanks to the gods that Sarella and his youngest four were safe at Dorne, as well as Rhaenys being away with her husband in the Vale. He doubted they would escape were their group larger. It would attract too much attention. As it was, they would be hopefully be able to make it to the docks under the guise of a group of people fleeing the burning keep in a panic.

Oberyn shot a quick look at his sister, checking her health. Elia had always been fragile in body, if not spirit, and he was worried that the events would be too much for her. Not to mention the smoke from the fire that had engulfed Maegor's Holdfast.

Elia had a tight expression on her face, and she was breathing more heavily than he liked, but she made her way down the hall without aid, unlike her gooddaughter. Queen Margaery had one hand covering her pregnant stomach and she was being supported by Ser Garlan, who held his sword at the ready with his free hand.

"We need to get to the docks," Oberyn stated. "I have a ship there that can get us away."

"But where will we go?" Aegon asked anxiously, his violet eyes wide with worry and shock at all that had occurred in the past... hour? Had it really been so quick? Rhaegar killed, the Lannisters' men swarming the keep, intent of killing everybody between Cersei's psychotic brat and the Iron Throne and a frantic battle to escape alive. All in less than seventy minutes. Madness.

"The Lannisters have the strongest navy in Westeros," Aegon continued, thankfully managing to keep his head on straight despite everything going on. "Going to Dorne or the Reach is far too obvious to take the risk, but I cannot think where else to go. Essos? But we have no allies there."

"I have an idea," Oberyn replied, thinking of eyes as grey as storm clouds and chestnut curls framing a heart-shaped face with a heart-stopping smile. Of course, the chances were as likely that she would greet him with a knife to the chest as a kiss. Or perhaps both, knowing Sara. "But we need to get to the ship first."

"I trust you, Uncle," Aegon said solemnly. "If you say we can get to safety from the docks, then to the docks we shall go."

"Gods be with us," Tyene muttered, clutching at the Seven-Pointed Star dangling from her neck.

* * *

_**Winterfell: 1**__**st**__** January 303 AC**_

_Sara:_

Sara twisted and jumped backwards, avoiding the blade that had been heading for her ribs. She promptly lashed out with her foot, catching her opponent in the neck and making him choke. She took advantage of the brief respite to finish their spar, attacking with a series of swift movements that left him lying flat on his back, Sara holding her sword to his throat.

"Yield," the Crown Princess of the Winterlands demanded. "Yield Robb, you fucking stubborn idiot."

"I yield, I yield," her cousin groaned, tapping the ground to confirm his defeat. "Gods, Sara," he groaned as he clambered back to his feet. "Were you actually trying to kill me? What's got you in such a mood, Cousin?"

Sara grimaced. "Father is beginning to speak of my marriage," she said glumly. In truth, Sara was aware that she was lucky she had been able to put her father off for as long as she had. Especially after the mess of events that had occurred during her trip to Essos three years previously. That didn't mean she was infuriated and indignant at the thought of marrying. Still, the Crown Princess needed an heir, but marriage still wasn't something she looked forward. It was one of those unpleasant tasks that had to be seen to for the good of her kingdom.

Of course, she had been lucky enough to be born into the Stark family of the Winterlands. Unlike women in the south, nobody would expect her to submit to her husband or to hand over rulership of her lands to him. But Sara had no interest in any of the men who were eligible to press for her hand. As far as she was concerned, the Winterlands were her first, best, last and _only_ true love. Anybody she married would have to accept that they would always come at most third in her affections, far behind the people she was to one day rule and her family.

Robb grimaced and awkwardly patted her shoulder. "Cheer up," he advised her weakly. "Look at it this way, at least you'll be marrying a friend. Anyone suitable to wed you is a friend, so 'tis better than Theon and Alys."

Sara smirked slightly. Theon Greyjoy and Alys Karstark were excellent people and her good friends, but they were a terrible match, personality wise. Alys resented living in the Iron Islands, and she was indignant that Theon failed to do her the courtesy of being discreet in his affairs. One of these days, one of them was going to kill the other, and Sara was putting her money on Alys being the one to snap first.

She started to reply, but a messenger came hurrying up and bowed lowly to her.

"Princess," he greeted her.

"Paladin," she nodded to him, instinctively slipping into the role of Crown Princess. "Is aught amiss?"

"Your father summons you to his solar, Your Highness," he answered with another low bow. "He must speak with you urgently."

"Then I will go directly," Sara nodded. She was still wearing her training clothes, a pair of leather leggings and a long tunic that reached near to her knees, both dirty from her and Robb's spar. But if her father and king wanted to speak with her, then she would not keep him waiting purely for the sake of looking nice. It was a foolish waste of precious time. She could see a Southron being idiotic enough to do so, though.

She quickly pushed away any thoughts of the south and hurried to her father's solar. Robb, meanwhile, went for the hot springs to wash, given he hadn't been summoned as well.

She arrived at the door to the King's Solar, outside of which two Wolf Guardians, Jory Cassel and Mark Ryswell, stood guard for their sovereign.

"My father summoned me," she informed the men.

Jory, the more senior of the pair, nodded. "Aye, he is inside." The Guardian paused then added. "Magnar Reed is with him."

Sara managed to keep her eyes widening in surprise and a sudden burst of worry at that. Magnar Reed was the strongest greenseer alive, the High Greenseer. If her father had called her to a sudden and urgent meeting with the seer, then something monumental must have occurred.

"I see," she breathed., smoothing out her tunic. "Announce me, if you would be so good."

"Of course, Princess," Jory inclined his head and rapped sharply on the oak door before opening it and sticking his head around the edge. "Lysara Stark, Crown Princess of the Winterlands!"

She strode in after being announced, going to one knee and bowing her head respectfully to her father and king. She waited for permission before rising and sinking into a nearby armchair.

"Magnar Reed, I am pleased to see you have returned to Winterfell," she murmured to the solemn faced crannogman. "Is all well with you?"

The Magnar of Greywater Watch sighed heavily and shook his head. "All is well with myself, my Princess," he informed her. "But I cannot say the same thing for Westeros itself."

Sara bit her lip worriedly at that.

Anybody who had grown up in the domain of the Starks knew to listen when a greenseer spoke. The Old Gods themselves gave aid to their followers through the visions those with greensight received, letting them make the best decisions for the First Men as a whole.

Torrhen Stark had made the decision to fight Aegon the Conqueror due to the advice of the Greenseers of the time, who had warned that, if he were to bend the knee to the dragons, it would ultimately lead to the destruction of his House and the ruin of his kingdom. The decision had led to almost two centuries of warfare, but they had clung to their independence and were the better for it. Unlike the Dornish, the North had not sold itself and spat on the sacrifices of their forebearers by submitting to Targaryen rule in exchange for a pretty face.

"What trials face our kingdom, my magnar?" Sara asked, not certain that she wanted to know. Her thoughts darted up to the small child who at this time would be playing in the nursery under the watchful eyes of her nurse. If war was about to break out, that child would be in grave danger. Of course, any who sought to harm a child of Stark blood would have to get through the entirety of the Winterlands to do so. Not to mention Sara herself.

"King Rhaegar is dead," her father spoke up, his frown deep and grim. His hair was heavily streaked with grey and his face lined, though he had not yet seen more than forty namedays. The stress of being King had worn on him, even aided by the loyal magnars who advised him and her mother, his right hand.

Sara blinked in surprise at the news. "I had not heard he was ill," she mused. "And the death of another of the wingless dragons would not typically be a cause for concern for us. Unless, of course, 'twas not a natural death, and we had reason to believe that events may restart the war."

The war between the Iron Throne and the Weirwood Throne was in a stalemate, as usual. But it had never quite stopped, and the most recent outbreak of violence had been only three years before Sara's birth, just over two decades prior. It would not take much for the veterans who had lost their family and friends to the dragons' greed to agree to go to war once again.

"You see the truth of the matter, daughter," King Eddard XXIX nodded. "King Rhaegar proved his foolishness when he took a second wife. That it was the ambitious daughter of a power-hungry child murderer only worsened things. The man was murdered by Queen Cersei, whose family retainers seized control of the Red Keep and King's Landing with it. They have named Cersei and Rhaegar's elder son, Aenar, as king. This is despite Queen Elia's son Aegon being the legal successor according to the laws of succession for the Iron Throne. Queen Elia, her son and his wife managed to escape the coup alive, aided by several Kingsguard and the Queen Mother's brother and some of his daughters. I am given to understand that Princess Rhaenys' husband, Lord Artys Arryn and his father Lord Elbert, are moving to seal off the Eyrie, as Doran Martell is doing to the Prince's Pass."

Sara nodded back at her father, sure that she wore a matching frown.

Personally, the Crown Princess of the Winterlands found the succession laws of the south foolish. In the Winterlands, the successor could be male or female. It could be the eldest or the youngest or the middle child. The claimant simply had to prove themselves according to the rituals of their House. Sara herself had gone through the Weirwood Trials twice, given she had needed to prove that her dalliance in Essos that had led to Mariah's birth had not affected her ability to be Queen. She had been helped by the fact that she had shamelessly thrown her former lover under the bus, blaming him for seducing and taking advantage of her in order to keep from being disowned in her father's fury at her laying with an Andal. It had damaged her reputation still, making her appear weak-willed, but she had managed to regain her people's respect when she had led the crushing of the recent White Walker attack, repelling the Old Gods' ancient foes.

It had not been the fact that she had borne a babe out of wedlock that had infuriated her usually-even tempered father so much he had threatened war with Dorne over it. That was typical and accepted in the Winterlands. If the Gods wanted someone to exist, it would be so, however it happened. What had angered him was _whom_ she had chosen to give her maidenhead to.

The Red Viper was not a particularly liked person in the Winterlands. No Andal was.

"So, the Six Kingdoms will go to war then," Sara stated matter-of-factly. "Another Dance of the Dragons, without the damned winged beasts causing chaos. Forgive me, my king, my magnar. But I fail to see how this affects _us_."

"It shall affect us, Daughter," King Eddard replied stonily. "Because, according to Magnar Reed's greendreams, the fleeing Targaryens are coming_ here_ for sanctuary. Apparently, 'twas Prince Oberyn's idea. I wonder why he believes that they will find a welcome here?"

Sara somehow managed to both pale and flush in unison at her father's announcement.

"Ah," she whispered.


	3. Sibling Talks

**Disclaimer: I don't own ASoIaF/GoT. **

**BTW: In this AU, Oberyn went to King's Landing cerca Aegon's birth to support his sister, and never met Ellaria. He does still have Elia, Obella, Dorea and Loreza, however they each have different mothers.**

**The War of the Wolves was the most recent war between the Iron and Weirwood Thrones, it replaced Robert's Rebellion in this world.**

**The Liberty War was a war between The Winterlands and the Free Cities over slavery. The Winterlands won, and slavery is now banned in the Cities, who are unofficial vassals to the North. It happened several years after the end of the War of the Ninepenny Kings.**

**Chapter Two**

**Sibling Talks**

_**Winterfell: 30**__**th**__** January, 303 AC**_

_Sara:_

If she had any sense at all, Sara would hate Oberyn Martell. He had gotten a child on her, shamed her in the eyes of her people, and she had spent nearly four years trying to redeem herself for the whole thing, whilst he remained oblivious to the grief he had caused her. He had as good as ruined her life when he'd taken her to bed.

But he had also given her Mariah. Much as she resented how difficult things had become for her since she'd returned to the North and her stomach had swelled with her child, Sara could not resent her bright, precocious little girl. Oberyn had given Mariah to her, so she could not bring herself to hate him, nor to regret the events that led to her birth.

"When I'm queen, I think that I am going to legitimize her," Sara mused aloud to Ygritte, who was standing guard at the door whilst Sara soothed her daughter to sleep in the rocking gesture with a mixture of soft singing and gentle movement.

"Of course, you will," Ygritte scoffed. "Nobody ever thought differently. The only reason that your father has not done so himself is because he cannot, will not, risk the burners getting a foothold in the kingdom. He loves her dearly."

"He is punishing me, also," Sara added tiredly. "He still has not forgiven me. I cannot blame him either. I lay with a man who killed so many of our own, shaming their sacrifices. I deserve it."

"He loves you still," Ygritte told her quietly, with uncharacteristic sympathy. "You are his eldest child, his heir. He is so proud of you, loves you so. That is why he is angry, because your actions disappointed him."

Sara hummed and shifted Mariah's weight. "He has decided to grant sanctuary to them," she murmured, staring down at the small form in her arms. Mariah's Stark-grey eyes were shut, her breathing even. She had Sara's chestnut hair, but the curls were different. Rhoynar curls. Her father's curls, and his complexion too.

Sara had not said the name of her child's father when they had first asked, refusing to answer. That had not bothered them, nor had her actual pregnancy. When the Gods wanted somebody borne, it would happen. Bearing a child out of wedlock had never been considered particularly shameful in the Winterlands. Had she been married or betrothed and betrayed them, 'twould have been a different story. No, having a bastard had never been the problem.

But when Mariah had been born, with skin the colour of bronze, it had been obvious where her father was from. Putting together the timing and their knowledge of the south's movements, including that the infamous Red Viper, Prince Oberyn Martell had been in Braavos on business with the Iron Bank at the same time, had been easy.

Sara had never seen King Eddard so furious. He was generally a calm man. Many claimed the wolf's blood had skipped entirely, going to his late elder brother and her Aunt Lyanna, the Lady of Hardhome and a fierce and temperamental warg warrior. Sara had been genuinely frightened that he would cast her out for lying with a burner, one of their ancient enemies, or maybe even declare war, as Magnar Umber had urged him to do. Thank the Gods, her mother had intervened and calmed his rage. But the disappointment everybody had aimed at her had been even worse.

Sara had lived her entire life trying to be the perfect heiress to the Weirwood Throne. That people thought she had failed had been soul-crushing.

"I am worried," she admitted. Ygritte was her closest friend, save for Robb. And speaking to her cousin about this particular topic was not an option. He doted on Mariah, but he was enraged by the mere mention of Oberyn.

"What about?"

Sara bit her bottom lip. "I fear that I will lose her," she confessed miserably.

Ygritte tilted her head. "You think that the Viper would try to take her? I admit he is known for claiming his bastards when he finds them. But taking the daughter of a whore from a brothel is one thing, taking the daughter of the Crown Princess of the Winterlands is quite another. He would be a fool to try it. His fighting prowess is renowned, yes. But he is not good enough to defeat every guard in Winterfell. Not to mention escaping the North with a small child in tow."

"I never said it was a logical worry," Sara pointed out tiredly. "Just that I am worried. And what if Mariah realizes? She has never asked about her father or why her skin is different from others, but she will eventually, and I know not what to tell her. Mayhaps I should send her away until they are gone back to their blasted Six Kingdoms. She would be safe with the Mormonts."

Ygritte sighed and shifted her weight. "You are Mariah's mother," Ygritte stated. "Nobody has the right to take her from you. Not your own parents, and _definitely_ not the Red Viper. Just, for the love of the Gods, do _not_ get involved with him again Sara. Your mother might not be able to calm your father a second time, should you end up lying with the damn burner again."

"I know, I know," Sara snapped. "I have no intention of even acknowledging his existence. It was all a foolish mistake. I did not think, I know I was a fool."

"And he took advantage of your youth to seduce you?" Ygritte added mockingly.

She knew Sara too well. Most people had realized that Sara had not been as innocent in the whole affair as she claimed, but they had all silently agreed to follow along with the lie and lay the fault at the prince's feet rather than her own. It was always so much easier to blame an enemy than it was to blame a loved one.

Sara shot her friend a dark look, reluctantly rising and carrying Mariah over to the child's bed, laying her down and covering her with the snug furs. The child sighed and rolled onto her side, curling in on herself with her small rag doll tucked firmly beneath her arm. Sara had sewn the doll herself whilst in confinement. In a fit of sentimentality, she had sewn a red snake around the hem of the doll's dress. She supposed that hadn't helped her to hide his identity. She lingered a few moments longer, staring at her daughter and running a gentle hand over her soft curls, before at last straightening and leaving.

She was the Crown Princess, and there was work to be done. No matter what, she had to put the Winterlands first. Always.

**PoWPoSPoWPoSPoWPoS**

_**Winterfell: 31st January, 303 AC**_

The next day, the escort that was being sent to collect the dragons and bring them to Winterfell gathered in the courtyard, preparing to leave.

Sara was more than a little dismayed by the fact that Robb had been chosen to co-lead the escort, along with Magnar Torrhen Amber. Her cousin was still furious at Oberyn for everything that had happened, and Sara feared he would attack the prince, orders from the King or no.

Thankfully, Magnar Amber was a good steady, man, a veteran of the War of the Wolves and the Liberty War. Hopefully, he would be able to keep her foster-brother from losing his head when faced with the father of her child.

"Robb, I need you to promise me something," Sara whispered to him, pulling him aside.

"Anything, Sara," he agreed instantly. In a kingdom filled with people devoted to her family, her cousin was her strongest supporter.

"Do _not _let_ him_ know about Mariah," Sara ordered him. "Make sure that nobody mentions I have a daughter. He's _not_ to learn of her, alright?" It was for her to reveal their child's existence to Oberyn, and she had yet to decide if she would do so.

Robb's expression hardened and he gave a curt nod. "He will not learn of her," he promised. "I will make sure of it."

"And do not kill him, please," Sara added imploringly. "Our relationship with the Six Kingdoms is bad enough already."

Robb grimaced. "I will do my best," he agreed grudgingly. "But should he make advances towards you, I care not if he will be under guest right or not."

That was an alarming threat, given that she had no doubt that he was being serious. Robb was one of the few who had never blamed her for the whole mess. Instead he had aimed a frightening amount of hatred towards her former lover.

"Should he make any advances towards me, Cousin," Sara replied. "I will kill him myself."

She would too, she insisted to herself. Any affection for him was solely due to their shared daughter. She did not care about the man himself. That was a foolishness she had left behind. _Far_ behind.

It had to be behind her. She could not lose her kingdom. It was her everything, and always had been.

Robb nodded in agreement, leaning in to kiss her forehead. "I will see you when I return," he murmured. "With Aegon the Crownless and his entourage in tow."

Sara smirked. "Call him that to his face for the first time where I can see, please?" she requested wickedly. He snickered and nodded.

Then Magnar Amber called to them, he went to join his party and she watched silently as the group mounted their horses and thundered out of the gate, heading for the coast that the greenseers claimed the Targaryens would land on.

* * *

_**The Bite: 'The Viper's Spear': **__**31st January, 303 AC**_

_Oberyn:_

Oberyn stared out over the rolling blue waves, lost in his memories.

"_Usually it's the men who try and kill me, not the women," Oberyn smirked at the angry lady holding a knife to his throat. "Might I know what I have done to offend you, madam?"_

"_You __**are**__ the Red Viper, are you not?" she replied, expression stormy._

"_I am," he confirmed. "Prince Oberyn Nymeros Martell of Dorne. And you?"_

"_I am Crown Princess Lysara Stark of the Winterlands," she bit out. Oberyn felt his eyes widen in surprise and alarm. This situation had just gone from amusing and dangerous, to just plain dangerous, with possible political repercussions if mishandled. "You killed a dozen soldiers sworn to my House when you ambushed their camp during the war. Not to mention the ones you killed in battle. So yes, Your Highness," she spat the word as if it were poison in her Cupid's bow-shaped mouth. "I wish to kill you. They deserve vengeance."_

"_Ah," Oberyn breathed out, silently wondering how to get out of this situation. Her guard, a redheaded woman about the same age as the Princess, was blocking the exit, and her white direwolf (ridiculously huge, how had he not realized before who she was, given her companion?) was growling at him from its' place in front of the window._

"_Well, Princess," he said. "Have you considered the fact that, if you go through with this and kill me, you will have triggered another war? I am the brother of the Ruling Prince of Dorne and the Queen, as well as the uncle to the Crown Prince of Westeros and goodbrother to the King of the Seven Kingdoms."_

"_The Crown Prince of the __**Six **__Kingdoms," she corrected him sharply. "Despite the dragons' claims, they are __**not**__ rulers of my kingdom. And if they could not subdue us when they had fire breathing lizards to help them, then they never will be."_

"_Are you going to kill me?" he asked, not wanting to get into that delicate topic when he had a knife to his neck._

_Princess Lysara scowled, evidently debating it. He had the foolish and reckless thought that he wanted to kiss her. _

_She lowered the knife, looking as if it physically pained her to do so. "Fine," she bit out coldly. "For now, I will not kill you. But the second I get an excuse, I shall."_

"_Try to avoid ruining the floor with my blood," he japed. "The Iron Bank would not like that."_

_She scoffed and rolled her eyes. He silently resolved to bed her at least once before they both finished their business with the Bank. She was too beautiful and fiery for him not to._

_He had always loved the dangerous conquests the most._

"Oberyn, are you certain of this?" Elia came up to his side, breaking him from the memory of the first time he had met Sara. "Going to the Winterlands of all places...They have no reason to aid us, and every reason to hate us. The War of the Wolves-"

"I know a person in their court," Oberyn interrupted her. "Somebody with considerable influence there. And Margaery is with child. The faith of the Old Gods forbids them from shedding innocent blood. That is why the Winterlander army did not loot any towns and cities or harm the women and children during the war."

It had to be acknowledged, whilst the south typically called the Winterlanders barbaric, not one woman had been reported as having been raped or mistreated when they had occupied towns during the War of the Wolves. It was far more than even the Dornish army could claim. Even his homeland had its bad eggs who lost their honour and minds when their blood was up from a battle. He had always admired the Winterlanders for that, even before meeting Sara and learning how the followers of the Old Gods saw the world.

"They will grant her shelter, at the least," he continued. "And us with her, most likely. All we need to do is get guest right from her, and they will not harm us."

"Her?" Elia gave him an exasperated look. "Another old lover, Brother? I trust things ended amicably, given you are entrusting this woman with our lives. The lives of my son and grandchild."

Oberyn hesitated. "Mostly," he stated. "However she is, unpredictable shall we say? Speaking of which, we should gather everybody and speak. I learned a great deal about the culture of the Winterlands whilst I was with Sara, and I need to explain certain things. Offending our hosts is hardly the best way to keep them from handing us over to the Lannisters."

Elia nodded, her lips turning down. "I do not even grieve for him," she admitted to him, her voice filled with vulnerability. "He was my husband, the father of my children and my king. Yet now that he is gone, I feel nought but relief."

"Rhaegar never deserved you," Oberyn insisted, anger filling him at the thought of his late goodbrother. "He was an arrogant fool, a terrible father and a weak king."

All he said was the truth.

Rhaegar had always thought that he knew best, that nobody could possibly understand him or his thoughts, that he was the only person in the world capable of thinking properly. He had barely paid attention to any of his children, be they Elia's or Cersei's, and he had been so busy pouring over dusty old tomes in the library and playing sad songs on the harp that ruling had fallen completely to the Small Council. Oberyn could recall Rhaegar attending only three council meetings the entire time that he had served as Master of Laws, over a decade and a half.

"He disrespected you, your children and Dorne itself when he took Cersei as his second wife," Oberyn told his sister. "He paid the price for his arrogance with his life. I feel no sorrow, and nor should you."

She sighed and nodded, leaning into him for an embrace. He cradled her, stroking her black curls and pressing a kiss to the top of her head.

"All will be well, Elia," he promised her. "I promise you. Sara will give us shelter."

He would not say that she would help them more than that, because that was not a promise he could make. He doubted that the Winterlanders would be willing to help them regain the Iron Throne for Aegon. They had been enemies so long, it would be foolish to even hope for such a thing to occur.

But Sara, underneath her icy exterior, was a very compassionate person. For the sake of his unborn great-niece or nephew, he was certain that she would give them shelter at least.

"Who is this woman," Elia asked. "That is influential enough to grant sanctuary to Andals in the heart of the Winterlands?"

He swallowed and looked away.

"Oberyn?" she pressed, now sounding worried. "Who is she?"

Well, it wasn't as if he could hide it forever. He supposed he might as well get it over with.

"She is the Crown Princess," he admitted. "Lysara Stark, heiress to the Weirwood Throne."


	4. Parents and Children

**Disclaimer: I don't own ASoIaF/GoT.**

**Thanks to everyone enjoying this. **

**The ships used by the North are based off of Viking ship styles, but with direwolf heads on the prows.**

**Cersei's children are Aenar (equivalent to Joffrey) age 15, Valaena age 13 and Aelyx age 10.**

**Read, enjoy and review!**

**Chapter Three**

**Parents and Children**

_**Winterfell: February 17**__**th**__**, 303 AC**_

_Sara:_

_It hurt. It hurt worse than anything she had ever felt before, as if she were being ripped in half. Through the haze of pain, Sara could hear the women and the Healer attending on for the birth of her child speaking frantically to each other._

"_She is losing too much blood-"_

"_Do you think that something is torn within her?"_

"_The babe is in breech, but-"_

"_The king has refused to allow us to cut into her, he demands that we save them both!"_

"_Gods be good, what do we do?"_

"_Pray. Pray for the Princess and her child. Their lives are in the hands of the Gods now."_

_Sara moaned, feeling a damp cloth wipe her sweaty forehead. A soft hand was placed against her cheek, delightfully cool against her feverish skin._

"_Sara, my beautiful daughter," it was her mother, but Sara could barely make out Ashara's voice. She did not have the strength to open her eyelids to meet her mother's gaze._

"_Sara my lovely daughter, you are a she-wolf, a descendant of a thousand Swords of Morning," Mother murmured. "You have the strength of Winter in your veins. Use it, my love. Do not let this battle be your last. Be strong, my daughter, and then you will have your child in your arms. Please my love, try."_

_Sara groaned, feeling another contraction hit her. But her mother's words had gotten through to some part of her. She was Lysara Stark, the Crown Princess of the Winterlands. And now she was a mother too. If she failed to win this battle, it would not just be her who suffered for it._

_She bore down with all the strength left in her exhausted body, and through the agony she felt something slide from between her legs. Despite the fatigue pulling her towards the painless bliss of unconsciousness, she heard the sound of a wail, coming from a newly born babe angry at being ripped from the warmth of its' mother's womb and forced into the harshness of the world. Her lips quirked up weakly at the sides._

"_Son or daughter?" she managed to croak, forcing her eyelids open a fraction to peer up at her mother, who was beaming in relief._

"'_Tis a healthy little girl, my wolf star," Ashara informed her. "Another fierce she-wolf to add to the nursery alongside her aunt."_

_Someone gasped, and Sara was instantly invigorated with alarm. "What is it?" she demanded, trying to rise from the birthing stool. Unfortunately, Winterlander women gave birth whilst lying on top of a sort of slide, to help the child leave its' mother more easily, and she was unable to get up due to her angle and the weakness in her limbs. "What is wrong with my daughter?"_

"_Your child is well, my princess," Scholar Luwin came forward with a bundle in his arms that he handed to her, his expression strange._

_Sara looked at her daughter's tiny face, scrunched up as she wailed her tiny heart out, feeling a mixture of incomparable love and utter dismay fill her. _

_Ashara peered over Sara's shoulder and inhaled sharply, a hand going to cover her mouth. "Oh, Sara," she whispered. "What have you done?"_

_Sara could not lift her eyes from her babe's gold-skinned face, feeling shame fill her, though the love was not dampened by it. "Her name is Mariah," she announced softly. "Daughter of myself, the Crown Princess of the Winterlands, and Prince Oberyn Martell of Dorne."_

"Sara, what is your opinion on the matter?" her father asked, snapping her from her memory of her daughter's birth. She turned away from the window, tearing her gaze away from the sight of Mariah and Serena playing together in the courtyard under Osha's watchful and protective gaze.

"I think that 'tis worth a try," she replied. "Though I worry how the magnars will react. This seems like something that will require a vote of the Conclave."

The king nodded, looking grave. "I find myself in agreement with you, Daughter," he murmured, drumming his fingers on the armrest of the chair. "Blasted burners," he grumbled. "They are all trouble. I like it not, I like it not at all."

"I agree," Sara sighed, running a hand through her hair, ignoring how her fingers caught on the braids. "Would we even have the supplies for such an endeavour?" she wondered. "We are in autumn now and winter is coming soon, we must ensure that we are prepared for it."

"Yes, but these numbers look well," he replied, handing her the parchment. "The long summer will give us a longer winter, but we have benefited from it also. Not to mention our trade with the Free Cities."

Sara hummed, scanning the figures and doing some calculations in her head. "And if the Crownless agrees to our offer," she mused thoughtfully. "Then we could perhaps make a trade deal with the Six Kingdoms also."

He gave her an approving look. "An excellent idea, Daughter," he complimented her, and she strove not to show her pleasure at the compliment, maintaining her neutral demeanour, as was proper.

"I seek only to ensure the continuing prosperity of our people, my king," she stated, inclining her head to him respectfully.

He stood and went over, placing his hands on her shoulders and meeting her gaze. "I know that well, Lysara," he told her, grey eyes locked on grey eyes. "I feel that I have been remiss in giving you your due as my child and heir."

"Never, Father," Sara protested. "You-"

"Am very proud of you," he interrupted her. She felt her breath catch at the sincerity in his tone. "You made a mistake with the burner, that cannot be denied. But you have long since made up for your lapse in judgement. You will be a wonderful queen one day."

Sara felt tears sting her eyes as she bowed her head to him. "Thank you, Father," she whispered. "I want so dearly to make you proud of me."

"I have always been proud of you, Sara," he replied softly. "Even at the height of my fury, I never stopped being proud of you, or loved you any less."

The tears spilled over at that, despite her efforts to hold them back. "I am so sorry for what happened, Father," she apologized. "I never meant- I truly did not realize what was happening until I was half-way gone, and by then-"

"You were seven-and-ten," he interrupted. "And everyone loses control sometimes. Part of the reason heirs are sent to travel the Free Cities is so that they get the chance to explore and have the chance to be someone other than Crown Prince or Princess. To let you be free for once, before you take up the mantle of rulership. And 'twas better this way. The Gods clearly wished for Mariah to be born, and I rather it have happened willingly than you being forced."

Sara nodded and buried her head in his chest. Weeping in his embrace and feeling him stroke her hair and back made her feel as if she were a child again.

Finally, he had forgiven her.

* * *

_**Just past the coast of Oldcastle, The Viper's Spear: February 17**__**th**__**, 303 AC**_

_Oberyn:_

They were near to the coast of the North when it happened. Without warning, a group of ships, all flying the direwolf of the Starks, suddenly appeared and boxed in their defenceless ship.

In truth, Oberyn had been surprised they had not seen any sight of the Winterlander Navy yet. Now, staring at the five long ships that had surrounded their own, it dawned on him that the various birds they had seen had probably been wargs watching their progress. At least, some of them had been.

"Oh, Father protect us, Warrior cover us with your shield, I beseech you," Margaery prayed quietly, clutching at Tyene's hand and cradling her stomach. "Mother, Maiden, grant us mercy, do not let the Smith craft our defeat. Stranger do not take us. Not yet."

A form stood on the prow of the largest ship, wrapped so heavily in furs that their gender and features were impossible to make out. They lifted a sort of horn to their mouth and the southrons jumped in surprise when a voice, distorted by the horn and the wind, came out of it.

"Halt! You are now in the sovereign waters of His Grace King Eddard XXIX Stark, the King of the Winterlands! Who goes, and for what purpose?"

Oberyn looked to his nephew, who swallowed and stepped forward, opening his mouth to yell in reply.

"Aegon VI, King of the Sev-Six Kingdoms!" he called back, hastily correcting himself as he recalled how Oberyn had warned him _not,_ under any circumstances, to claim he was the rightful king of the Winterlands. "I come with my wife, Queen Margaery, my mother Queen Mother Elia Targaryen of House Martell, my uncle Prince Oberyn of House Martell and his daughters, Obara, Nymeria and Tyene Sand of Dorne! We come to seek asylum from the Starks under the Oak Accords! My wife is with child and near to delivery!"

The figure turned and spoke to their crew, then returned their attention to the southrons. "As you have claimed sanctuary under the Oak Accords and have a pregnant woman with you, your request is granted. We shall take you to the nearby harbour where an escort is awaiting your arrival. They will take you to Winterfell, to meet with His Grace who will make the final decision of what to do with you. We will go now."

With that, the person jumped off the prow onto the deck of their ship, and at a signal the ships surrounding them began to move. Hastily, the Spear's crew rushed about to get their own ship moving before they were crashed into or left behind, whichever came first.

"What are the Oak Accords?" Tyene wondered, looking at her father for an explanation.

He cleared his throat, tugging his cloak closer around him for warmth. The North was the coldest place he had ever been, even colder than Braavos at the height of the last Winter. They had not had the chance to grab suitable clothing before fleeing the Red Keep, and so none of them had warm enough attire. Margaery's lips were tinged blue, and Elia was shivering constantly despite the two of them having been given the warmest clothes to be found and several woollen blankets to be used as cloaks.

"The Oak Accords were created five millennia ago, by Donnel Stark L (fiftieth)," he began, deftly keeping his balance as the ship surged forward through the waves. "I fear that the background that led to them being formed is unknown to me, however I am given to understand that they are basically a guarantee of shelter for any refugees who claim it, so long as those refugees are not criminals, do not attack any Winterlander and have either a child, somebody injured or a pregnant lady with them. And Egg, I know that I have said this before but I must do so again: do _not_ call yourself king of the Winterlands. Frankly, I think you need to simply accept that is a dream that will never come to reality.

Even if you miraculously managed to conquer them, the people will never accept you as their king. They revere the Starks, and they despise the south. They would constantly rebel against you, and refuse to acknowledge the Targaryens as their lieges. The Starks will not agree to bend the knee either. Even when Daeron tried to get the Winterlands as he did Dorne, through marrying his granddaughter to Prince Artos Stark and having Prince Aelor marry Princess Berena, it did not work. The Winterlands are very contemptuous of Maron's decision to bend the knee. They believe that by doing so, he spat on the sacrifices made by those who died. They may be open to an alliance if we go about it the right way, but never will they sacrifice their independence. Not after so many of their people gave their lives for it.

They say that the North remembers, and I can assure you that 'tis true. You are not king of the Seven Kingdoms Aegon, and you never will be. But if we play this right, you could still be the king of the Six Kingdoms in truth. And the king who made peace with the Winterlands at that."

They all looked at him with wide eyes, before Aegon swallowed and met his gaze as steadily as he could.

"You have been more of a father to Rhaenys and I than Father ever was, Uncle," he murmured. "And never have you led me wrong. When I meet King Eddard, I will kneel before him and beseech his kingdom's forgiveness for the actions of my ancestors."

Oberyn felt his expression soften, and he reached out to grab his nephew's shoulders and pull him into a tight hug. "I am proud of you, Aegon," he told his sister's son gruffly. "You will be a great king. I know it. Better than even your namesake the Conqueror or Daeron the Good himself."

"I have the best examples in yourself and Mother," Aegon replied. It seemed as if Egg had also forgotten that they were not alone, as Oberyn had. But their private moment was interrupted when Tyene darted forward to hug them both, pulling her sisters with her. After that, Margaery and Elia also joined, and they huddled together.

For a minute, Oberyn stopped feeling so cold in his family's embrace. Then he remembered that he was on his way to see Sara again, and his heart seemed to stop in his chest.

By the Old Gods and the New, how would he ever be able to look her in her beautiful eyes, the grey orbs that always reminded him of storm clouds? She had been the only woman to ever capture his heart instead of just his desire.

If things had been different, he would have married that woman.

_**The Red Keep: **__**February 17**__**th**__**, 303 AC**_

_Cersei Lannister:_

"What do you mean?" Cersei stared at her father with wide eyes.

He glared back at her, jaw tense. "The Arryns received word of our coup," he explained curtly. "As did everybody else. The Bloody Gate has been shut, the Tyrells have called their banners and it seems that they are preparing to march on the capital whilst Dorne has sealed off the mountain passes. No doubt they too are calling for their banners. The only reason that the Riverlands have not is because we are holding Princess Daenerys and Lord Edmure captive. The country is on the verge of civil war. All because of your stupidity!" His voice had been icily calm until the last part, when he had raised it to a shout of anger.

Cersei flinched and objected. "Father no!" she protested. "I was doing my duty as Queen and as a mother. That half-Dornish weakling and his part-rose whelp were claiming the inheritance that rightly belongs to Aenar! Rhaegar would not listen to me, so I had to-"

"You were a fool!" Tywin snapped at her. "And reckless. Yes, I agree that your stepson and his family had to be dealt with, but quietly, disguised as an attack whilst on the way back to Dragonstone perhaps. Your coup was the epitome of stupidity, as was your idiotic idea not to inform me of your plans! Killing your own husband in public! Of all the things! And of the Targaryens, you only managed to capture Prince Viserys and Princess Daenerys. Aegon and his wife are missing, and we have no hint as to his whereabouts. Most of the Council is dead, and the Kingsguard almost all went with Aegon. Meanwhile, your son is loathed by all who have met him, as they all consider him to be a blonde version of his paternal grandfather. Every Great House is against us and we cannot defeat them."

"But our army-" Cersei began to argue.

"Do not be such a fool!" he spat at her. "Our army is the best, yes, but not the largest. We cannot defeat five out of six kingdoms, and the Crownlander houses will not help us. They hate you and Aenar too, in case you were unaware. I-"

"My son is maligned by those unworthy to lick his boots!" Cersei declared shrilly. "He is stronger, more handsome, more intelligent and far more worthy to sit on the Iron Throne than Aegon could ever be!"

"Your son is a madman!" Tywin snapped back. "He cut open a pregnant cat at five years' old! He torments his younger siblings and the servants! He is as mad as Aerys, and you are a fool to believe otherwise!"

Cersei opened her mouth to protest his statement and defend her son, but she was cut off by her father's hand connecting sharply and unexpectedly with her cheek. Tears welled automatically in her eyes as she clutched her cheek. Her father glared at her stonily.

"Leave, Cersei," he ordered her coldly. "I must continue to work on fixing the disaster you have created."

"I am the Queen Regent," she protested. "I-"

"No,_ I_ am Regent and Lord Protector," he declared in a tone of finality. "_You_ are a reckless fool of a woman, with far too high an opinion of your own capabilities. Now leave, before I have the guards drag you to your chambers and locked in."

Cersei knew he was not jesting, so she rose with as much dignity as she could muster and stalked out, hiding her clenched fists by gripping her skirts. She made her way to her children's rooms, knowing that seeing their beautiful faces would soothe her better than anything else.

Her father, the whole world was wrong. Aenar was not Aerys the Mad reborn, he was the Young Dragon.

He would be the greatest king ever born, and his reign would go down in history as the Golden Age of the Seven Kingdoms. She had always known it would be so.

"_Five for him and three for you. Gold shall be their crowns and gold their shrouds," _Maggy the Frog had said to her, all those years ago. "_And when your tears have drowned you, the __valonqar__ shall wrap his hands about your pale white throat and choke the life from you."_

Cersei shuddered at the memory and forced it away. No. No. The witch had been wrong. Her children would live long, glorious lives, ruling over all of the kingdoms. Her son would lead the Kingdoms to crush and conquer the Northron barbarians, and go down in history. It was true, she knew it was true.

Aenar Targaryen, First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Defender of the Faith, and Lord Protector of the Seven Kingdoms. Aenar the Great Lion he would be known as. How grand it sounded.


	5. The King Who Did Not Kneel

**Disclaimer: I don't own ASoIaF/GoT. I've decided to have some chapters set in the past of this AU in between the regular-time ones. Hope you guys enjoy! Read and review, pretty please with sugar on top!**

**BTW: AC begins from Aegon 1's crowning, and the entire conquest took two years. I can't find a specific mention of when Torrhen bend the knee, but it was before the Vale and the attack on Dorne, after everything else, so I have it about eighteen months before Aegon was crowned. Also, in canon Aegon's army was half their size, but in this they have a larger population, control of the Iron Islands and 3 Sisters and standing army, so they are only slightly outnumbered (given that Aegon had the armies of the Stormlands, the West, the Reach, the Riverlands and the Crownlands and Torrhen left some people behind to guard the North).**

**Also, there is some mention of a brother/superior hitting another. I just want to clarify that I don't EVER consider corporal punishment acceptable, but this is a mixture of medieval/Viking cultures, both of whom were very free with that, so that's why. It's not graphic, I promise, I just wanted to warn you in case it's triggering for any readers.**

**Chapter Four**

**The King Who Did Not Kneel**

_**The Trident: November 30**__**th**__**, 18 moons BC**_

_King Torrhen XXV "The Defiant" Stark:_

Torrhen Stark, King of the Winterlands, Lord of Winterfell, Guardian of the Neck and Warden of the Neck, had a grave expression on his face as he listened to his bannermen.

"My king, allow me the honour of leading the van," Magnar Benjen Umber requested, eyes glinting with bloodlust. "I will secure you the ford." Umber had always been eager for battle, the second to rush in and the last to retreat. Only the Greystarks, always seeking to repair their honour after their ancestors' rebellion, were more eager to fight. The current Magnar Greystark was but a babe in arms, however, and his uncle was not a part of the council.

"My king, those dragons are monsters!" Magnar Karlon Dustin declared, pale as death. "We must retreat and regroup. They will swallow our griffins in a single bite!" Karlon was no craven, but he was a Scholar who had received his lordship unexpectedly, not a warrior. Torrhen was unsurprised he preferred to retreat and reorganize. Dustin had been advising caution ever since word had come of the Field of Fire.

"Discord can be sewn in the enemy camp, Your Grace," Magnara Jorelle Starstark suggested. "They all fought with one another not two years past." Torrhen nodded to that, considering it as he considered all his advisors' words. Each had value, and should be considered carefully.

Dragons. Dragons as big as Winterfell, with warriors to ride and command them, like the Targaryens were some sort of wargs. The enemy army outnumbered them by not quite two-to-one, according to the scouts and greenseers. That was something their army could handle, of course. The Northern Army dealt with White Walkers and wildings wielding black magic. A bunch of prissy southrons was not a problem. Each of Torrhen's soldiers was worth five of the southrons. A Warg Warrior was worth a dozen Andal knights, and those were the ones still in training.

But _dragons_. He knew nothing of their weaknesses, and they had destroyed Loreon Lannister and Mern Gardener's army.

His people were still recovering from the most recent war with the White Walkers. They had repelled them again, of course. But the battles had damaged the strength of their army, lessening its' numbers, as well as damaging their supplies for Winter. It was Autumn now, and they relied on trade with the Reach to supplement their food stores during famines. The Reach that was under the control of the Conqueror.

Protect the Winterlands, that was his Gods given right and duty. But how to protect his people and kingdom from something he had once thought to be nothing more than a legend?

"House Mormont knows no king but the King in the North, whose name is Stark," Magnara Lyra Mormont stood, drawing everybody's attention. It was the same thing she had said in every meeting since he had announced they were marching to war. "Command us, my King."

King in the North. Torrhen was the twenty-fifth King of Winter to bear his name, the most recent of a dynasty nigh-on eight millennia old. He had to protect his people.

He raised a hand, instantly silencing his clamouring councillors. "Everyone save for my brother and Greenseer Greengood, leave us," Torrhen ordered.

They filed out, leaving Torrhen alone with his younger half-brother and the High Greenseer.

Brandon was not yet eight and ten, but he was already the strongest greenseer alive, born of their deceased father, the late King Dorren XV and a young crannogwoman, Alys Blackmyre. His skill with the mystical arts was unparalleled. High Greenseer Rodrik Greengood was a crannogman, as many greenseers were. He was not the strongest Seer, and had been blind for many years, but his skill with interpreting the visions sent to him by the gods was without peer.

"Greenseer, Brother, tell me truthfully," Torrhen ordered them. "Do we stand a chance of winning, should we engage with the dragons on the morrow?"

The letter that had come from the Lord of Dragonstone, demanding that he bend the knee and give up the Weirwood Throne, had been a shock. No greenseer had predicted its' arrival, and everyone had been stunned by the audacity of Aegon Targaryen, to attempt to claim the Winterlands. His fellow kings had received their letters and mostly scoffed at it, but not Torrhen. Although his seers had not predicted it, he had known that nobody would be so bold if they did not have a reason for it.

He had instantly called his banners, and then had decided to wait and gather supplies and information, on the advice of his council. They needed to know what the man's secret weapon was, if they were to counter it and defend their kingdom. They had subsequently been proven right in their concerns of a powerful foe when Harren the Black, the King of the Riverlands, was burned to death in his own, supposedly impenetrable, castle.

On learning of Harren's death, Torrhen had given control of the Winterlands to his wife and daughter, his heiress Lyanne, and then marched south to the Neck, collecting more levies along the way. The navy was left stationed around their coast, in case the Targaryen army decided to try a sneak attack by water whilst the main army was away.

Greengood and Brandon exchanged looks at his question.

"Brother, grant me permission to go and slay the dragons," Brandon said, repeating the request that Torrhen had been denying for weeks. "I have my blessed arrows, they are carved with runes and made from weirwood bark. They cannot miss. Should I die, I will die proudly, defending our home. Let me do this, Torrhen, _please_. I beseech you."

Torrhen pursed his lips, frustrated by the avoidance and repetition of a request he had denied already multiple times. "That is not an answer, Brandon," he chided his brother sharply. "If you will not speak of what I wish to hear, then be silent. Do not make me force you to submit."

He did not like raising a hand to his brother, but sometimes Brandon gave him no choice. He was King of the Winterlands, and could not allow others to gainsay or undermine him. In truth, he was far laxer on Brandon than many family Heads would be. Their father had caned Brandon so much as a boy he had permanent scars on his thighs from it, yet Brandon's wolf's blood remained strong and he stubborn and unruly.

Brandon looked mutinous, but Torrhen was pleased when he bowed his head in submission and fell silent. Torrhen's own direwolf, Sioc **(Frost) **barked approvingly, whilst Brandon's wolf, Claíomh **(Sword)**, also bent his neck in obedience to the alpha's will.

"Now, answer me truthfully, Greenseer," Torrhen ordered. "Is my brother's request possible? Can he slay the dragons? And should he do so, will we be able to win this battle?"

Greengood inhaled and exhaled slowly, his blind eyes staring sightlessly at the tent wall. "I can See futures where the Greensighted Wolf slays all the dragons, two of the dragons, four, three and none," he predicted. Torrhen assumed that he was counting the Targaryens and the beasts both as dragons, otherwise the numbers made no sense. "He will die in some, and in others he will live with scars to show his victory. I See that we will certainly succeed in repelling the dragons from our borders on the morrow, but they will come again, and again, seeking to steal what is yours, my king. 'Twill be a war stretching over centuries, fuelled by the greed of the dragons."

Torrhen exhaled painfully, dreading what would have to be done. He would disgrace and dishonour himself, his ancestors and the many sacrifices they had all made for the sake of preserving their lands, expanding their kingdom and defending the Old Gods from the burner filth that sought to destroy them. His wife would never forgive him, nor his children and brother. His mother and father would turn away from him shame and disgust upon his entering the Halls of the Gods. And that was if his spirit was still allowed to enter Valhalla after shaming his House so, instead of being sent to the Dungeons of the Gods to rot for eternity.

But his people would be safe. Winter was coming, bringing with it famine and death. Perhaps if he bent the knee and gave up his crown willingly, he would be able to preserve their ways, instead of the southrons infecting their lands.

"And if I bend the knee to the dragon king?" he asked, keeping his anguish at the thought hidden behind a stoic mask and suppressing the shake that threatened to slip into his voice.

Brandon, who had been staring sullenly at the ground, snapped his head back to stare in horror at him. "What-? Craven! You cannot, we are direwolves! We cannot just sacrifice everything our people and ancestors have ever fought for, give it up to those godless burners! Torrhen-"

Torrhen cut him off with a sharp slap, making Brandon's head snap in the opposite direction with a loud crack. The wolf's head signet ring on his right index finger cut into his brother's cheek, drawing blood. Torrhen hit his brother a second time, breaking his nose, then kicked him harshly in the ribs, before he stared stonily at Brandon, who resentfully knelt.

Meanwhile their familiars also fought. Sioc bit his littermate, pinning him to the ground and forcing him to yield without grace.

"Do not speak out of turn to me again, Brother," Torrhen warned. "Do not make me go through this again."

Brandon bent his head, showing his neck in the age-old gesture of capitulation. "Forgive me, Your Grace," he muttered. "I should not have spoken as such to you. I know you seek only the prosperity of our people. My loyalty is with you, always. But I beseech you, my king. To yield to the southrons will be the ruin of our people."

"Do you speak as a proud Northerner, or as a greenseer?" the king demanded, not giving forgiveness or permission to rise. A little humiliation would do his proud brother good, remind him who was head of their family and to whom he owed his allegiance and obedience. Mayhaps the ache in his knees would teach him the respect that their father's birch rod had not.

"He speaks as a greenseer, a Shoilse **(Irish equivalent to Your Grace for kings)**," Greengood, who had been silent throughout the exchange, spoke up at last. "To bend the knee to the dragons would be to seal the fate of your House and our kingdom."

Torrhen frowned deeply. "Tell me what you See," he urged. "You speak with such certainty. Is there no future where joining with the south aids us?" Brandon shifted, but when Torrhen raised his hand in warning he froze, staying quiet. His brother had some sense after all then.

"None," the greenseer announced pessimistically. "The details differ in the futures we See, but all end the same way. Should you become the King-Who-Knelt, should you give up the Crown of Bronze and Iron, it would be the beginning of the end. Southron ways will slowly begin infecting our kingdom. The Iron Islands will be taken away from you and given to these oathbreaking Tyrells, to lessen the power of the Starks. The Three Sisters will also be seized, those islands your ancestors fought a thousand-year-long war for. They will become vassals of the Arryns. We will be made to conform to the Andal succession laws, and your son Brandon will succeed you as the 'Warden of the North'. Your daughter will be forced to marry Ronnel Arryn, in truth a hostage to keep us compliant. Later, she and her children would be murdered along with Ronnel when his younger brother performs a coup to seize control of the Vale."

Torrhen suppressed a flinch at that. He had four sons and one daughter living, and had lost another son and daughter each. The boy had been stillborn, while his daughter Lynora had died of a fever at five. The thought of his fierce Lyanne dying along with her children after spending years as a hostage was agonizing.

Greengood went on. "'Twill only get worse, my king. There will be centuries of humiliation and degradation, of our people suffering from the south's belief in their superiority. Finally, 'twill culminate in the end of your great line."

Torrhen swallowed, feeling as if his throat was sticking together. "How?" he asked lowly.

The greenseer sighed heavily, looking mournful. "There will come a time when Winterfell is ruled by Rickard Stark," he said. "He will have three sons and a daughter, Lyanna. His daughter and eldest son will both have much wolf's blood. Lord Rickard will seek to enrich the North by making more ties to the North through marrying his children to southrons, egged on by the whispers of a southron who sought to spread their burner filth, taking advantage of Lord Rickard's grief over his beloved wife's death. His bannermen will be infuriated by the betrothals, and very nearly mutiny.

Then, Lady Lyanna will be spirited away by the crown prince, who will be obsessed with a prophecy from Old Valyria speaking of a Prince That Was Promised, born of ice and fire. Whether there is truth to the prophecy or not, I cannot say. Lord Rickard's eldest son will go to the capital, demanding the prince's head in a fit of rage. He will be arrested, his men slaughtered. Lord Rickard will be summoned to answer for his actions, and they will both die painfully, as the king at the time will suffer a severe case of madness, something many Targaryens will. 'Tis their punishment for marrying their siblings, contrary to the laws of both the Old Gods and the New.

These Targaryens, they are arrogant, my king. They think themselves gods on earth, due to their dragons. The egotism is astounding.

But I will continue, loathe as I am to speak of such horrors. The deaths of Lords Rickard and Brandon will spark a war, with Rickard's second son becoming Lord of the North despite his lack of preparation. Lady Lyanna will die in his arms after birthing a stillborn child.

Lord Eddard will struggle greatly with his role, for he was never prepared for it. He will have been fostered in the Vale and be more southron than Northern. As he was never raised to be Lord of Winterfell, he will be oblivious to many tasks that The Stark must perform, and he will fulfil his duties in a southron manner, further damaging their standing in the North's eyes. He will marry his brother's betrothed to keep the alliance, and she will be a devout follower of the Seven. She will even," he faltered, looking stricken.

He inhaled and exhaled deeply, as Torrhen braced himself. The prediction was terrible enough, he dreaded hearing whatever was so terrible it made his unflappable advisor shudder in disgust.

"She will have a sept built in Winterfell, and raise her children in her own religion," the greenseer informed his king, making Torrhen recoil in horror. Brandon grimaced and shuddered, but Torrhen did not reprimand him for it, verbally or physically. It was truly a horrifying prospect. The North's duty as the last bastion of defenders and believers in the Old Gods was to preserve Their ways at all costs. To think of an _Andal_ claiming the title of Lord of Winterfell...Their ancestors would rise from their graves in disgust to become kinslayers, Torrhen knew it.

"Lord Eddard will be a dear friend to the king of the time, a drunken whoremonger with whom he grew up," Greengood continued. "When the man summons him south to be his advisor, or rather, to rule whilst the man laid with various women and got deep into his cups, he will obey. He will bring with him his three daughters, two trueborn and one base born to his lover, who died shortly after the end of the war. Within the year, he will have learned the queen was committing treason, and she'd have killed him for it. He would be decapitated with Ice itself, and the sword would then be taken by the Lannisters, who greedily sought its' unique and precious value as the only weapon made of Winteriron. His youngest daughter would escape, but the other two would not.

His heir would call the banners. He would triumph over his enemies in every battle, but eventually be killed by those disgusting southrons, who murdered he, his mother and pregnant wife along with a hundred of their men whilst under guest right. Winterfell would be sacked, and the two younger sons murdered by an Ironborn boy whom the Young Wolf trusted too much on account of a shared childhood.

Of the daughters, the fate is even more painful to hear. The youngest girl would end up in Braavos, where she would join the Faceless Men, giving up her identity in exchange for the ability to gain vengeance for her family. The rituals they do mean that she would truly be No One, and not a Stark any longer.

The firstborn girl, Eddard's bastard, would suffer a dozen rapes and great abuse. The burner all believe that bastards are born of lust and sin, and treat them with great cruelty. Eventually she would fling herself off a balcony in despair after her sister, the second-born and eldest trueborn daughter, disappeared. Said girl was spirited away by a man who lusted after her mother and sought to take her for his own. But upon understanding his plans for her and learning of her sister's death, she too took her own life.

As you well know, my king, 'tis through your family's magic and work that the Wall remains strong, a guard against the wights. By their time, the Targaryens would have caused it to become nought more than a dumping ground for criminals, with only three forts manned and only about a dozen honourable warriors out of the entire Night's Watch. All the rest would be criminals who chose the black over death, something put into place by the dragons. The Starks would continue to perform the rituals, but the meaning of why they did so would be lost, and Lord Eddard was unaware that he needed to do anything in the first place, and so did not. With the death of the last Stark daughter, almost two decades after the last time a Stark performed the rituals, the Wall's magic would be lost completely, and the White Walkers would overwhelm the weakened Night's Watch, bringing ruin and death all over the kingdom, and continuing to spread their poison all the way to the Neck.

This is the fate that you will bring upon the world, should you choose to submit to the dragons on the morrow. In the end, 'tis your decision, my king. But for the sake of the North, I beseech you. Do not do it, my king. You will doom us all if you do."

Torrhen exhaled, staring down at the small, elderly man. Despite the film of white covering his eyes, he seemed to stare right into Torrhen's soul.

The King of Winter made his decision.

"Brandon, rise," Torrhen ordered, turning to his brother. He studied Brandon's features, imprinting them in his memory, least this be the last time he laid eyes on them. "Take your arrows, and anything else you require," he instructed his brother, a vicious and triumphant grin forming on the younger man's face. "Take any_one_ that you need, also. Then go to the enemy camp and slay the dragons. Go with my blessing, and that of the Gods, my brother. The fate of our House and our family's kingdom rests in your hands."

Brandon knelt to accept Torrhen's blessing, his grey eyes fierce and determined. "I will not fail you, my king," he vowed with fierce grey eyes as Torrhen rested his palm on his younger brother's chestnut curls. "I will kill the dragons, and save our people."

"I have faith in you, Brother," Torrhen replied seriously. He allowed his stony countenance to break slightly, reaching out to grip Brandon's upper arms tightly and pull him into a hard embrace, savouring the feel of his sole living sibling. They had grown up with three sisters, and another four brothers. All of those were now dead, from illness, battles with the south, White Walkers and Thenns, and the famine each Winter brought to the North. Brandon was his only sibling left.

"Be careful, Brandon," he implored him. "I would not lose you."

"You shall not," Brandon grinned cockily. "We are Starks, and ice is in our veins. Winter is indestructible."

"Aye."

**PoWPoSPoWPoSPoWPoS**

He paced all night, unable to sleep. At the break of dawn, he left his tent to survey his army's preparations. The North was always at war, with the south and those beyond the Wall or with the land itself, so their army was well-trained, not like the disorganized smallfolk levies used by the south.

The griffin riders, knowing they would be key in the coming battle, readied themselves. The Griffin Riders were a small section of the army, only about four hundred capable of fighting. Mostly they were scouts, and they were far smaller than the dragons ridden by the Targaryens, only about the size of a large war stallion. But all of them were bonded to their mounts, the best archers training could produce, and above all dedicated.

The ground-based archers were fletching the bows and checking their quivers, whilst the cavalry saddled their horses and the foot fighters checked their equipment. A mixture of anxiousness and anticipation filled the air.

They all knew what they were fighting for, and they would all die to preserve their independence.

Abruptly, a scout came running up to Torrhen's side. The king tensed. "What is it?" he snapped.

"Greenseer Snow has returned!" the girl exclaimed. She was from the Bay of Ice, by the look of her uniform. One of the Icewolfs' people.

Torrhen did not reply, rushing to where the girl had pointed as quickly as he could without causing panic in the army's ranks.

He found Brandon seated on a stump, a man dressed in the green tunic of a Healer bent over him and a crowd of onlookers gathered around the pair.

"How is he?" Torrhen demanded as he raced to their side, the crowd surrounding them hurrying to make way for him. "Brandon, did you succeed?"

"Greenseer Snow will live, my king," Healer Blackwood stated, straightening. Torrhen hid a flinch as he realized that his brother's left half was covered in ugly burns. "But he will bear his scars for the rest of his life, and never make use of his left arm again. He must be moved to the healing tents immediately."

"I will bear these marks with pride," Brandon croaked, voice hoarse. "For I have succeeded in my mission, a Shoilse. The Black Dread, Vhagar and Queen Rhaenys are all dead. The Dragon King and his sister-wife have no mounts, and their sister is dead. I have succeeded, my king."

A great cheer went up throughout the watching crowd, and Torrhen beamed in pride.

"You will be honoured greatly for this, Brother," he declared. "You have saved the Winterlands." He spun to face his soldiers. "Grab your arms!" he exclaimed. "We attack immediately, before they can regain themselves! Today, we show these sister-fucking burners why the Winterlands are not to be defied! Hail, Brandon Snow of House Stark, the Greenseer who saved the Winterlands!"

"Hail Brandon!" they yelled. "Stark! Stark!"

"For the Winterlands!" Torrhen bellowed, raising Ice high above his head.

"For the Winterlands!"


	6. The Tears of An Unbowed Dragonness

**Disclaimer: I don't own ASoIaF/GoT. Thanks to everyone who reviewed, followed, faved, kudosed, etc. As usual, read, enjoy and review!**

**Chapter Five**

**The Tears of An Unbowed Dragoness**

_**Winterfell: February 19**__**th**__**, 303 AC**_

_Sara:_

Sara entered her father's solar, curious as to what had caused him to summon her back less than an hour after she had left to go and work on her swordplay. She was surprised to see her mother in the room as well, instead of attending to many duties that came with being the queen consort. Ashara's elegant hands were resting supportively on Eddard's shoulder, both of them frowning at a letter held by the King.

She gave a quick curtsey then strode over to the desk her father sat behind. Her concern increased at the blatant anger in her father's eyes when he raised his gaze to meet her own.

"You summoned me, a Shoilse?" she stated questioningly once he had granted her his attention.

"Aye, I did," he confirmed with a brisk nod. He held the parchment out to her, jaw set and expression stony with suppressed rage. "Sara, my daughter," he said. "Read this, and tell us what you think of it. It arrived only an hour past."

Sara accepted the letter and quickly scanned it. Her reading slowed quickly as she comprehended the words on the page. She was so incredulous at the audaciousness and arrogance written that she had to re-read it twice to actually accept that somebody had actually committed such words to parchment.

_**3**__**rd**__** January 303 After Conquest, 1**__**st**__** Year in the Reign of His Grace King Aenar 1**__**st**__** of the Seven Kingdoms**_

_**To the Usurper calling himself King of the Winterlands,**_

_**This is a royal edict ordering Eddard Stark, the so-called King of Winter, to come forth immediately to the capital of the Seven Kingdoms, King's Landing, in order to bend the knee and pledge the Winterlands' allegiance to the Iron Throne. You will bring with you your eldest daughter, Lysara Stark, the falsely-proclaimed Crown Princess of the North. His Grace has generously decided to take the lady as his secondary wife. Of course, the King's sister, Princess Valaena, will be his primary consort and sole Queen. Lady Lysara will be titled as Princess Consort to His Grace. Lord Stark is also ordered to bring with you your son, Brandon Stark, who is to become a ward of the Crown.**_

_**Should you refuse to obey the orders of the King, you will Hear Us Roar when we bring you Fire and Blood.**_

_**Yours faithfully,**_

_**Cersei Targaryen of House Lannister, Queen Regent for His Grace Aenar Targaryen, First of His Name, King of the Rhoynar, the Andals and the First Men, Defender of the Faith, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm.**_

The audacity of the letter was utterly stunning. Sara wondered if she was feeling as shocked as Torrhen the Dragon Deifier and his people had felt when his court had received a similar letter from Aegon the First. She read it through again, her shock slipping away beneath her rising rage.

"If these incest-stricken dragons seek to make a royal baby-maker of me," she snapped once it had at last sunk in, feeling her blood begin to boil with raw fury at the insult. "Then the supposed king will find me with a knife in the marriage bed! The delusional arrogance of these people! Who do they think they are, to send such a letter? They dare to call _you _an usurper? And to threaten us with war, how delusional are these people?

If the Conqueror could not force us to submit with his dragons, if the Young Dragon could not make us bend like he did to the Dornish, how does this woman think to do so? They could never get past the Moat, never even get their ships within seeing distance of our shores unless we allowed it! I have never seen such dangerously arrogant delusionality!"

"We are in agreement with you, Daughter," the king growled. Her father's beloved direwolf companion, Laochra **(Hero)**, snarled and his tail flapped in anger, fur bristling. Sara's own Taibhse **(Ghost)** growled and paced in a circle.

"'Tis the height of insulting," Ashara agreed, her violet eyes flashing in fury and her pale cheeks stained red with anger. "How dare this jumped-up oathbreaker demand that the noblest king in the world submit to her incestuous son? To demand you become his _secondary wife_!" she spat it indignantly. Ashara was fiercely proud of her ancient heritage, and even prouder of the House she had married into. She sneered in contempt at the Lannisters and Tyrells, considering them to be ambitious upstarts.

"The Starks are a dynasty eight millennia old!" the queen continued to rant. "Her own ancestors did not rule as Kings of the Rock for a full century before the dragons made them bend the knee. Yet she dares to demand the King of the Winterlands come and surrender his children and people to them? She calls him a lord, not king? I want to wring her neck!"

"I expect even her own kin would thank you for it," Eddard scoffed. "Imagine having to deal with such insanity on a daily basis. It nearly makes me pity them."

"Will we send a reply, my king?" Sara inquired, forcing herself to push down the wolf's blood that urged she go straight to the capital of the Six Kingdoms and do exactly what her mother had suggested. The audacity of the woman! Sara struggled to believe the letter was genuine, and not an attempt to goad them into war. It was the only thing that made sense, unless Cersei was insane. And here Sara had thought it was the dragons _born _to the family that needed watching.

"I think that we ought to send them a declaration of war," the queen sniffed. "Preferably in the form of a knife stained with the woman's blood. That will show them what the Winterlands think of their demands. Your father disagrees with me. He believes that we ought to wait and meet with Aegon the Crownless first, to see what his plans are and what he wishes from our people. As such, we have decided that you will be the one to make the final decision on the matter."

Sara resisted the urge to swallow nervously. She was not inexperienced in her role as heiress to the Winterlands. She had gone through the Weirwood Trials to become heiress for the first time at ten namedays. Her father and mother had been steadily increasing her involvement in ruling their kingdom. This was a big decision, however.

She looked back down at the letter, Taibhse, rubbing her soft head against Sara's arm. "I find, Your Graces, that I am in agreement with my lord father," she finally said. "While a great part of me wishes to go right to King's Landing and rip the woman's throat out for her insults, I know that it is a decision fuelled by anger, not sense. I struggle to believe that declaring war is not what Cersei intended to provoke us into doing when she wrote this letter. While I am confident in our ability to win this war, we must, as Torrhen the Defier did, discover if they have some secret weapon to aid them in the coming battles.

Beside, if we wait for the Crownless' arrival, at least we will have leverage over the Six Kingdoms once they are in our hands. His supporters in their realm will want him back safely, his opponents will want him back to be killed and most likely made an example of. We ought to wait. Revenge is best served cold, after all." A maxim stated by King Cregan when he had taken advantage of the Dance of Dragons to increase the Winterlands territory into the Riverlands and there took his second wife, Queen Alysanne Blackwood, more commonly known as Black Aly.

Black Aly had been treated with wariness at first, but her fierce nature and devotion to the Old Gods, as well as her loving and maternal manner to her stepson, had quickly gained her the loyalty of her people. The entire kingdom had mourned when she was killed fighting a Thenn invasion three years after her last daughter was born.

She was pleased and warmed by the approving looks directed her way by her parents. They were subtle, but definitely there.

"A wise decision, Sara," Father nodded, high praise from the stern and taciturn ruler. "And you are sensible to suspect such deceit by the Lions. Such things are typical of the southrons, with their thrice-cursed Game of Thrones. However, I am sure that war with the south is on the horizon, no matter what course we choose. As such, I want the kingdom's defences placed on high alert, the border guards increased to maximum patrol. You will be in command."

Sara stood and bowed to him, detecting the hidden dismissal in her father's declaration. "I will not fail you, my king," she promised as she straightened up again, tossing her braid back over her shoulder.

She had been in command of Hardhome and the Wall's defences two years' past, when the most recent Wight War had occurred. She had succeeded then, and earned back much of the respect her pregnancy had cost her. She had no doubts in her ability to organize the defences this time, either, though she would have to be careful not to allow herself to become overly-confident in herself. She would never risk her kingdom. Ever.

"I have no doubt of that," her father agreed, giving a sharp nod, before waving her off. "Go. Speak with the greenseers and your uncle to organize the defences. Captain Cassel, also. Your mother and I will continue to deliberate with one another also."

"I know what to do, a Shoilse," she confirmed, turning and leaving.

Surely the lioness queen had sent the letter deliberately to provoke them. Not even a madwoman could genuinely believe that they would actually submit to such demands, could they?

* * *

_**The coast of the North: February 19th, 303 AC**_

_Oberyn:_

Oberyn hid his trepidation as their ship was escorted into the dock of what he could clearly see was a keep for a garrison. A group of people, covered in dark furs with weapons and a variety of animals, ones that were clearly warg-familiars, stood waiting for them.

They seemed unbothered by the freezing cold that had Oberyn and his party's teeth chattering uncontrollably, the Winterlanders' hoods down to show off their features and the looks on their faces. Their expressions ranged from stoic to distaste to outright murderous and vengeful. It was obvious that the southrons' arrival was not one welcomed by the people of the Winterlands.

Oberyn noted grimly that their group was fiercely outnumbered. It was made worse by the fact that, of the ladies, Obara and Nym were the only proper warriors.

Tyene was a poisons expert, and Elia, though she had been trained in wielding a knife, did not have the health for it. Should a fight start, Oberyn knew they would be unable to defend themselves against the Winterlanders for long.

This was most definitely the most delicate diplomatic situation he had ever been in. Where was Doran and his silver tongue when you needed him?

A member of the Kingsguard stood beside each of the three Targaryens, Ser Barristan covering Aegon, Garlan Tyrell guarding his sister and Ser Oswell protecting Elia. Oberyn and his daughters made a ring around them, with the naval men who had taken them to the North also doing their best to shield the royal family from danger.

Oberyn could not stop his gaze from darting over the faces, searching for _her_. Disappointment that he wanted to pretend did not exist filled him when he failed to catch sight of chestnut curls and storm cloud coloured eyes, nor a direwolf the height of his shoulder with snow-white fur and crimson eyes.

Although it was obvious that the Starks had known they were coming, and had sent a party to greet them (well, Oberyn hoped it was greet them, rather than one of the other, more bloody, options), Sara was not there. A rather pathetic part of him wondered glumly if she remembered him at all, or if she had forgotten him as easily as he had forgotten the face of Obara's mother.

He did not have time to brood on the subject, however, as two of the Winterlanders stepped forward, both male. One was a man around the age of the Blackfish. The other was about Aegon's age, though he was obviously far more experienced in battle.

It was not as if that was unexpected, of course. Aegon's experience with battle outside of training was limited to some brigands and the Lions' coup at the Red Keep.

On the other hand, the Winterlanders, Sara had once informed him, started sending their sons and daughters out to fight outlaws or wildings or whatever, at about age eight. According to her, southrons were too soft, whilst Northrons were tough, in order to survive the harsh conditions of their arid kingdom. Apparently, that was why her country had never been forced to bend the knee. She had not been insulting him deliberately that particular time, he did not think. She had been so matter-of-fact about it, considering it a fact of life. It had made him laugh.

The memory of her face at his laugh, as if she were concerned for his sanity, made the corner of his mouth quirk up at the sides.

Aegon stepped forward, ignoring how the Kingsguard went tense, and bowed his head to the approaching men.

"Aegon Targaryen," the elder of the pair greeted him coolly in Andaii, not even bowing his head. He had hazel eyes that were narrow and suspicious, surveying their group and lingering on their weapons. "Welcome to the North. His Grace King Eddard sent us to greet your party and escort you to meet with him and the rest of the royal family at Winterfell. I am Magnar Torrhen Amber, Head of the Ancient and Honourable House of Amber and Lord of Elden Fort. This is Magnar Robbett Snow, the king's nephew and a lieutenant in the Warg Warriors. Welcome to Starkport."

"We are honoured to meet you, Magnar Amber," Egg replied, tension lining his spine. "I am King Aegon VI Targaryen. This is my wife, Queen Margaery of House Tyrell, my mother, Queen Mother Elia of House Martell, her brother Prince Oberyn Martell of Dorne and his daughters, Obara, Nymeria and Tyene Sand. These are my Kingsguard, Lord Commander Barristan Selmy, Ser Garlan Tyrell and Ser Oswell Whent. And, of course, our ship's crew. Captain Daeron Qorgyle and his men."

"Yes, we are acquainted with the reputation of the **Nathair Dhearg**," Magnar Amber stated.

Oberyn mentally cursed as the Winterlanders turned their attention to him. Sara's cousin, whom she had spoken of as being like a twin to her, as close to her and he was to Elia, was glaring outright at him, resting a gloved hand on the pommel of his sword. The lad's blue eyes blazed in raw fury, directed entirely towards Oberyn.

They quite obviously knew that he had been _acquainted_ with their princess, and they very clearly were not happy about it. He wondered just how much they knew, and how it had come out.

"Ahem, yes," Aegon cut in quickly, failing to cover his alarm fully. "I hate to impose, my lord. However, my wife is with child, and we have been under great stress these past few weeks, without any midwives to care for her. Is it possible for a maes-, apologies, a Healer, to see to her?"

Save for Magnar Snow, who continued to glower at Oberyn, who subtly braced himself in case he was attacked, the group looked back at the king-claimant and his queen.

"Indeed," Magnar Torrhen replied evenly. He glanced over his shoulder and spoke in the Old Tongue, causing a weathered woman with grey hair to trudge forward, clutching a sack sewn with the green tree that symbolized the Healers of the Winterlands. Another, younger, lady trotted forward as well, reluctance and boredom on her face.

"This is Healer Berena Greenwood," the Lord of Elden Fort introduced, gesturing to the older woman. "Who specializes in pregnancy and delivered all of the king's children and his granddaughter. The king dispatched her specifically for Queen Margaery. However, I must warn you that she is unable to comprehend Andaii. This," he rested a hand on the young woman's shoulder, earning himself an irritated look. "Is Raya Frost, Healer Greenwood's apprentice. She is capable of some Andaii, and will translate for her mistress."

"We thank you sincerely for your aid, my lord," Aegon stated, guiding his wife closer to the healers with his hand on the small of her back. The only sign of Margaery's nerves was the whiteness of her knuckles as she clenched her hands in her skirts, which could be passed off as the cold.

Healer Greenwood studied her, scoffed and barked something in her native tongue, making the members of Oberyn's group jolt in surprise.

"You all is not dressed properly," Raya Frost declared in accented Andaii, giving them the look of someone who considered herself to be enduring the presence of abject stupidity. "Follow. We get you proper dress. You is not dressed properly. The snow is making you blue, bad for child, bad for fingers. Follow."

They hardly much choice in the matter, given how the Winterlanders surrounded their group, forcing them to head towards the small garrison.

* * *

_**The Eyrie: February 20th, 303 AC**_

_Rhaenys:_

Rhaenys paced her goodfather's solar furiously, clenching her fists in her sky-blue skirts. She had come out of her confinement only the day prior to find the whole of the Vale was preparing for war. Whatever was happening had clearly been going for weeks at least, yet somehow her husband, goodfamily, Great-Uncle Lewyn, her ladies and the servants had all managed to keep it for her. It was terrifying. A sense of oncoming doom had enveloped her ever since she had realized that the Vale had sealed itself off.

"Goodfather, Husband, I implore you," she cried suddenly, spinning to face the men in the room with her and clasp her hands in a pleading motion. "Tell what you know! What is going on? Why have you sealed off the Eyrie? The banners have been called, the Bloody Gate shut! I have not received any letters from my family in weeks! Uncle Lewyn is on alert, dressed in full armour as if he thinks we shall be attacked right here in the Eyrie! Mother was supposed to come and meet Mathos, yet there has been no mention of it. _What is going on?_"

Lord Elbert sighed heavily, exchanging a glance with his son. Artys grimaced and bowed his head, before rising and going to his wife to pull her into his embrace as his father slipped from the solar to give them privacy.

Rhaenys laid her head against his shoulder, leaning into his chest and finding comfort in his strong arms. The Princess knew that she had been very fortunate in the match arranged for her by her father, and not just because he had agreed with her mother that the practice of incest needed to stop. Otherwise, Rhaenys might have found herself wed to the heir to the Iron Throne, not the heir to the Vale. Much as she loved Egg, the thought of wedding him made her ill. Her ancestors had been wrong, they were not exempt from the Gods' laws. In Rhaenys' opinion, that arrogant belief was the source of so many of her family's problems, particularly the madness that plagued them. The Gods were punishing them for their arrogance.

Her husband was five years' her junior at eight-and-ten, but she had been betrothed to him for as long as she could remember. He was her dearest friend, her knight and her jester. He treated her as a partner and with great respect, well aware of how he had been honoured by receiving the hand of the eldest Dragon Princess. She had given thanks to both the Seven and Mother Rhoyne the day she had at last left the misery of King's Landing behind with her ladies and sworn-shield, her great-uncle Ser Lewyn Martell and his paramour Ellaria Sand, along with their son Mors.

"What is going on, Art?" she begged him, feeling tears prick her eyes.

"Rhae, my beloved," he sighed painfully and guided her to the chaise, pushing her down before sitting beside her and wrapping an arm around her. She laid her head against his shoulder.

"Rhae, we could not tell you whilst you were recovering from childbirth," Artys murmured, kissing her forehead. "We dared not risk your recovery."

Rhaenys nodded in understanding. Whilst she was better than her mother had ever been, health-wise, giving birth had strained her greatly. She had been confined for a moon longer than women typically were, before the maester had declared her able to leave her bed and return to her duties.

She had been anticipating a stressful return, given her goodmother had been running the household alone for three moons. Lady Lysa Arryn was not a very loving goodmother, the one person in the Arryn family who disliked Rhaenys. Though the dragoness would acknowledge that Lady Lysa was a doting mother. So doting that she didn't even consider a Princess of Westeros good enough for her sole son.

But Rhaenys had not been expecting all of _this_.

"The King is dead, my love," Artys informed her, voice as gentle as he could make it.

Rhaenys inhaled sharply and pressed a hand to her still-swollen stomach, stunned silent by the news. She had never been close to Rhaegar. Her father was not close to anyone, she suspected. Save perhaps the late Lord Connington, who had died during the war. Her Uncle Oberyn had been the one to play with and teach both Rhaenys and Aegon, treating them as two more of his numerous children. She had always resented the way the king had treated her mother, disgracing and humiliating her by taking a second wife. Yet he had still been her father, and the news of his death was a blow. He had not been a_ bad_ man, she knew. He just hadn't been a good one, either.

"How?" she asked softly, once she had regained control of her vocal chords. "When?"

"On the new year," Artys explained gently, stroking her arm to comfort her. "The Lannisters they," he hesitated, wincing.

Rhaenys felt her heart stop in realization, before anger filled her. "They killed him," she stated, no doubt in her voice. "My father's lioness whore murdered him, more the fool he for giving her the opportunity by wedding her. But that means-oh by the Seven! Artys, Egg, my mother! Are they-they have not been-?"

"Nobody knows," he admitted. "They were seen fleeing to the docks with some of the Kingsguard, Queen Margaery and Prince Oberyn and his daughters. But nobody has heard anything else ever since. Your Aunt Daenaerys, her husband Lord Edmure and Uncle Viserys have all been taken into custody by the Lannisters. Everyone is preparing for war, but we have no news of King Aegon, and hesitate to know what to do due to that."

Rhaenys swallowed and shook her head, burying her head in her hands and feeling tears start to stream from her eyes, despite her efforts to hold them back. She was unsurprised to hear that her aunt and uncle had been captured. Uncle Viserys had been confined to Summerhall ever since Grandmother Rhaella had died in 288, watched carefully due to his ever-decreasing sanity. Meanwhile, her aunt adored being at court, and she and Lord Edmure spent more time in the capital than in the Riverlands. But the lack of news of her family made herself dissolve into tears and fear.

"This is all _his_ fault," she wept bitterly. "Damn him, he deserved to die! If he had not been such a foolish, lustful sinner, then we would not be in this situation! He may have doomed the entire realm because of this! They will come for our son and I!"

"They will never touch either of you, and he has not," Artys insisted, tightening his embrace on her. "Nobody will get to you or our son, I swear. We will find out where your brother and mother are, Rhae. We will crown Aegon king, and defeat the Lannisters. 'Tis the entirety of the Six Kingdoms against the Westerlands. I promise, we will see them dead before Mathos has lived past his first nameday. I will do whatever it takes to ensure they pay for this, I promise."

"I love you," she breathed, burying her head in the crook of his neck, feeling it grow damp from her tears.

"And I you, my darling dragoness," Artys replied, kissing the top of her head and stroking the dark locks that fell down her back in a waterfall of waves.


	7. The Dragon Kings

**Disclaimer: I don't own ASoIaF/GoT. Thanks to everyone who's enjoying this! Another thanks to the reviewer who pointed out that I wrote 'Torrhen the Deifier' instead of 'Torrhen the Defier'. That's fixed now.**

**Read, enjoy and review!**

**Chapter Six**

**The Dragon Kings**

_**Wolf's Road: February 23**__**rd**__**, 299 AC**_

_Aegon:_

Aegon had to wonder if he would even be allowed to live long enough to meet King Eddard. It was quite clear from the looks the Northrons sent at them that his party was not welcomed in the north. It made him wonder what his uncle had been thinking to direct them here instead of to one of their loyal kingdoms, when the locals seemed to have a special loathing for Uncle Oberyn. Aegon didn't understand why, but his uncle evidently did, and had been brooding about (Aegon assumed) the source for the entirety of the trip so far.

They had spent a single night in the garrison, before Magnar Amber had them hasten on their way to Winterfell. A cart had been provided for Margaery and his mother, though it wasn't particularly large or comfortable. To their credit, the Northrons had tried to improve it by piling in what seemed like a hundred furs and cushions, but there were no wheelhouses available at the keep for them to use. The men and his cousins had all been given horses to ride, big and tough Northron horses that clearly had been bred for battle, and did not look at all like the beautiful southron horses he was used to, and none of them had been disarmed. Everyone was polite as could be, despite the contempt and hatred in their eyes.

Aegon had never felt more unsafe, nor nervous and ashamed.

His ancestor and namesake had tried to take over these people, losing his favourite wife and two dragons because of it. Oh, the Targaryens had recovered from Brandon Snow's attack. Aegon and Visenya had both managed to hatch new dragons, and kept the realms they'd conquered bent to their will. But Morghul and Syrax had not been enough to allow the Conqueror to finish his dream of uniting the Seven Kingdoms under one banner. His actions had led to years of war before his son Aenys had manged to form a shaky truce with King Brandon CL **(hundred-fiftieth King Brandon-canon counterpart attended the Golden Wedding. It's a popular Stark name)**, which had lasted with some skirmishes until the Starks had taken advantage of the Dance to expand their borders. _That_ war had lasted another five years, ending in a stalemate. Then, the Young Dragon had reignited it after the Submission of Sunspear, causing his own death fighting Princess Sarra Stark (and had that not been embarrassing for the famous warrior? He had managed to break the Dornish, though only for a short period, yet he'd been killed by a lady.) and leading the Dornish being able to throw off their shackles and restore their own independence.

But whilst Dorne had eventually agreed to submit to the authority of the Iron Throne, the Winterlands had stubbornly clung to their independence. Many of the soldiers escorting them to the capital of the Winterlands had probably played a part in, or else were the children of, veterans of the most recent war between their two realms. It was quite clear that, in the eyes of the Northrons, bygones were most definitely _not_ bygones.

Were the Starks in agreement with their people, or would they be willing to listen to him?

"My lord," Aegon called to Magnar Amber. The man turned his head in Aegon's direction and grunted. Aegon took that as permission to continue. He could not stop his pride from bristling at it all, but he knew that his uncle was right. They were in the power of the Winterlanders now. At the very least, they needed to avoid earning their ire and provoking them into sending their party back to King's Landing for execution by the lions.

"How far are we to Winterfell?" Aegon asked.

"With the speed we are going at?" It was Robb Snow who replied. Aegon had to strain to hear his words through the harsh winds. No wonder the Winterlanders were such a harsh and grim people. How else would they survive living in such conditions?

"Not quite a fortnight," Lord Robb informed them.

No, not lord. The Winterlands used the terms 'magnar' and 'magnara'. Aegon had no idea how much of what he had been taught of the Winterlands and their people was correct. They certainly weren't a bunch of unintelligent barbarians, at any rate. But what was certain, he would make use of as best he could.

"My thanks," Aegon stated, before guiding his horse closer to the cart to speak with his wife and mother. Margaery and Elia were both bundled up heavily against the cold, but their noses were still red and they huddled close to one another. To think, this was what the North was like at the start of autumn!

"My love, Mother, how are you both?" he asked, scanning them.

"We are well enough, my son," Mother replied with a strained smile.

Margaery gave a small nod, huddling into her heavy fur-lined cloak and cradling her stomach. He could hear her teeth chattering from the icy temperature. He wished that the Northrons had provided a wheelhouse, but apparently they hardly used such things.

'_We have legs for short distances, and horses for long ones,' _one of the shield-maidens, a blonde girl with grey blue eyes names Erena Blackwood, had scoffed. _'Carts carry our goods to wherever they must go if needed. What would we need the things for?'_

It was quite obvious that the Northrons considered Southrons to be weak. But despite their contempt, they had not allowed it to affect their treatment of his ill mother and pregnant wife. Healer Greenwood and Apprentice Healer Frost had been most attentive to them both. Granted, the apprentice regularly insulted all of them and their ability to think or do anything with any slight degree of competence, but they were good at what they did. It was impressive, how little they allowed their dislike and personal feelings to affect their actions, and it made Aegon recall something Ser Brynden Tully of the Kingsguard, had once said to him about the Winterlanders.

"_I admire those people, I have to admit," the Blackfish had mused to him, looking thoughtfully out over the bay._

"_Admire them?" Aegon had repeated, stunned. "Truly? But everybody says that they are a bunch of barbaric heathens, worshipping false gods. By all accounts, they are uneducated and unskilled idiots. What is there to admire about them?"_

_Ser Brynden turned to him, eyeing him sternly and making the then-fifteen-year-old Crown Prince look down, feeling as if he were a misbehaving child._

"_The Winterlanders are not barbaric, nor are they fools, Your Highness," Tully had said firmly. "If they were as idiotic or unskilled as our people say, then your ancestors would have conquered them with more ease then they did the Vale, and all that took was Queen Visenya flying to the Eyrie and giving a ride to a child. As for their gods being false, never mind what the septons say about that. I have seen the Old Gods at work with my own eyes, and I know that they are real. I cannot say the same for the Seven. _

_The Starks have reigned for eight thousand years, since before Valyria or even the Ghiscari Empire. They have ruling down to an artform, and their people love them. They do not play the Game of Thrones in Winterfell, for their people love them too much to want to supplant them."_

_Aegon could not picture it. The Game of Thrones was a key part of his daily life. He looked at everyone save for Rhae, his mother, uncle and cousins, and tried to discover what their motives were for sucking up to him. How had the Starks managed to create a court without politics? Was such a place even possible?_

"_But what__** specifically **__do you admire about them?" the prince asked finally. "And how do you know all of this? None of my tutors have spoken of such things."_

"_No," Brynden snorted. "They would want to make it seem as our enemies were not inferior to us. I know of this because, when I was a child, I made friends with Sybelle Blackwood, the niece to the then-Lord of Raventree Hall." A strange expression crossed his face when he said the name. It almost made Aegon think-but no. Surely not. "We were young," the Blackfish went on. "too young to understand that our people were enemies and thus so were we. She told me much of her people, and I spoke to her of us. _

_Some of what she said might be dismissible as the sheltered beliefs of a child." The Kingsguard suddenly turned to look at Aegon, meeting his gaze with a fierce light. _

"_But I tell you this, Boy. Nobody can truthfully deny that, during the war, not a single woman was raped or killed by the Winterlanders when they raided our towns and villages. No food was taken from the civilians. The Winterlanders only attacked and fought military targets. They even intervened to save a few women who were attacked by __**our **__men. Our army, for all we preach of how chivalric and noble we all are, cannot say the same. Our people suffered more at our own hands than at those of our opponents. _

_Why do you think that is?"_

Why was it? Aegon had an answer, but it was not one that he felt proud of.

His great-grandfather, King Jaehaerys II, had once said that, when a Targaryen was born, the Gods flipped a coin. Depending on which side it landed, the child was destined for either greatness or madness.

During his youth, people had called Aegon's father, the Silver Prince, and believed his coin had landed on greatness. But he had proven them wrong when he allowed his lust to overrule his good sense. He had taken a second wife, alienating the Faith and especially Dorne, not to mention several other kingdoms who were offended either by his sinful actions or else that he had not chosen their own daughters to become his second bride. To make matters worse, Rhaegar had spent all his time pouring over dusty old books in the library and brooding alone there, leaving the day-to-day matters of ruling to his Small Council.

The only good thing that Aegon could say about his father was that he had managed to form an armistice with the Winterlands and that he had refused to wed any of his children to one another, despite Cersei's suggestions.

Aegon did not want to be like his father. He wanted his reign to go down in the history books alongside those of Jaehaerys the Conciliator and Daeron the Good.

Ever since that conversation with Ser Brynden, a nagging voice had been whispering in the back of his mind. Even before his uncle had so bluntly pointed out the facts whilst they had sailed for the North, he had known that the war against the Winterlands was fruitless. More than that, it was a waste of needed gold and, even more importantly, lives. It was also out-right embarrassing to be so thoroughly beaten constantly. Aegon had read through old battle reports, unaltered to be more flattering to the South's abilities in war.

If the Starks had wanted to take over the Seven Kingdoms themselves, the chances were that they would have succeeded. It was only their lack of interest that had spared the south from being made to bend the knee to the direwolves instead of the dragons.

This would be the first meeting between a Stark and a Targaryen in history. Aegon intended to see that it would be a memorable one. If he acted rightly, he could be known to the coming generations as Aegon the Peace-Maker.

It sounded like a title his mother would be proud of him to bare.

* * *

_**The Red Keep: 25**__**th**__** February, 303 AC**_

_Dany:_

Daenerys Tully of House Targaryen glared furiously at the guard who had come to bring her to the Great Hall. The man had wavy blonde hair, emerald-green eyes and a Westerlands' accent. His cloak was Lannister red instead of gold, though his armour was certainly made of the expensive metal. She recognized him as one of Kevan Lannister's sons, but she could not put a name to his face. There were so many Lannisters about, Dany had barely noticed them. Not until they had performed a coup, at least.

One of her lioness 'goodsister's' sycophants. One of those who had helped overthrow her legitimate nephew and steal his crown. Daenerys prayed that the Seven had aided Aegon in his escape, for a Westeros under the rule of the lions was not a place she cared to contemplate.

Gods knew, Aenar was already showing himself to be her father reborn.

"Lady Tully," the guard said, in a far-too unsubmissive tone for a soldier speaking to a Princess of the Realm. "His Grace the King has ordered your presence along with that of your husband Lord Edmure in the throne room. You are to bend the knee, acknowledge him as King of the Seven Kingdoms and pledge your loyalty. Your husband is also to swear the fealty of the Riverlands."

"And if I were to refuse to do so?" Daenerys demanded. She had been locked in her room for nigh-on two moons now, with no company save for her handmaid, a Naathi girl named Missandei. She had not even been allowed to see her children, and she was filled with worry and fear for Rhaegel and Rhaena. Nobody would tell her how they were, save that they lived still.

"Have you ever seen the Black Cells, milady?" the guard asked idly. "They are quite unpleasant. I imagine that for a lady, they would be even worse. I cannot contemplate how awful they would be for a child of four or three namedays."

Dany went rigid, and before she realized what she was doing she had lashed out with the back of her hand, slapping him harshly across the face. The ruby and sapphire ring her husband had given her cut into his cheek. She was stunned when he grabbed her wrist more roughly than she had ever been handled in her lifetime, and slapped her back.

"How dare you touch me, threaten me?" she cried in fury. "I am a Princess of the Realm, the next Lady Paramount of the Riverlands! How dare-"

He hit her again, and this time she tasted blood as she fell to the floor from the force of his hit.

"What you are, milady," he said coldly. "Is a hostage to keep the Riverlands in line. I suggest, for your sake and that of your family, that you cooperate. King Aenar rules now, and you are nothing to him."

Dany knew that he spoke truly. She had never liked Cersei's children. They were all replicas of their mother in body and temperament, save for Valaena's silver hair. And Aenar had started showing signs of his insanity young, when he had skinned a cat alive at a mere five namedays. If only Rhaegar had intervened and sent him off then, instead of procrastinating the way he always did.

But if only's would not help her. Daenerys had little fondness for Edmure, she considered him an idiot with an over-ambitious father. In Dany's opinion, the Tullys were a young, upstart family, unworthy of having her as a member. But she did love her children with everything in her. For them, she would submit.

But_ only _for now.

"So be it," she raised her chin and stood. "Take me to the Great Hall to greet His Grace, then."

The man smirked cruelly, before grabbing her by the elbow and hauling her out of her rooms. She glanced around as she was 'escorted' to the hall. It seemed as if Cersei had been redecorating. Lion motifs and other symbols and colours linked to the Lannisters were everywhere that Dany looked. Not to mention the redcloaks. It seemed as if they prevented people from walking side-by-side, there were so many Lannister men around.

Escaping by herself, let alone with her children, would be nigh-on impossible unless somebody loyal to her and unsuspected would agree to help.

They arrived at the Great Hall, filled with courtiers who avoided looking at her as she was pushed to her knees in front of the Iron Throne where her nephew sat. He grinned smugly down at her, and she was disgusted to realize that he wore Maegor's crown.

He had always considered Maegor the best king, and idolized him. If that had not been a sign of something being wrong with him, nothing was.

Edmure was already there, kneeling before the throne, when she arrived. He was bloody and bruised, so filthy that she barely recognized his features under the layers of dirt clinging to his face. His head was bowed, and he did not look at her when she was forced down beside him. His arms were chained behind his back, his breathing painful sounding.

"Hello, Aunt," Aenar greeted her, his grin edged with cruelty. "Uncle."

"Nephew," she replied coolly, raising her gaze from her husband to meet Aenar's green eyes.

Said eyes flashed angrily when she spoke.

"That is Your Grace to you!" he barked furiously. "I am the King!"

She bit back the reply she wanted to make and forced herself to bow her head in submission. The image she conjured in her mind of her two young children helped. For her children, there was nought that she would not do.

"Forgive me, Your Grace," she murmured meekly, feeling sick with disgust. "I forgot myself."

"This once I shall forgive you," Aenar sniffed and settled back into the throne, ignoring the way the blades sliced into his skin. "But only because I am so merciful. I will not be so gracious a second time."

"Your Grace is the kindest and best of kings," Daenerys forced out through gritted teeth, making him smirk triumphantly.

"Yes, I am," he agreed smugly. "Now, Mother?" Cersei, the goodsister that Dany so loathed and had always labelled Rhaegar's concubine, stepped forward, giving a loving smile to her son before turning to sneer at Dany. She had always resented that protocol dictated Cersei bow to Dany, for Dany was of the blood royal, whilst Cersei had merely married into the House. (A marriage which had been questioned many times on its legitimacy, and the legitimacy of the children produced by it, at that.) No doubt seeing Dany kneeling before her and her mad son filled the spiteful witch with glee.

"We all know why you two are here," Cersei declared. "Now, 'tis time for you to show your loyalty to the Iron Throne, and to King Aenar. Lord Tully?"

Edmure at last lifted his head, and Daenerys had to suppress a dismayed gasp. Her stomach churned sickly from horror. His left eye had been gouged out, and the wound was infected, leaking yellow pus. His entire face was bruised and swollen. Truly, he made a pathetic sight.

Daenerys had never been fond of Edmure, but she had never disliked him either. He was a decent husband, better than many others for all he lay with other women far more than he did her. At least he had never shamed her. And she had never once wished harm on him, let alone the torture he had clearly been subjected to over the past few moons. Torture, despite being a noble and kin through marriage to the royal family. It was an outrage.

Dany heard a rustling in the crowd, some whimpers and cries, but she was focused on both her husband and nephew. Edmure looked bleak, his voice rough and quiet when he spoke. Aenar, meanwhile, looked pleased and eager.

"I, Lord Edmure Tully," her poor husband croaked out. "Heir and Acting Lord of Riverrun and the Riverlands, hereby pledge the allegiance of those aforementioned places and my own personal loyalty, to His Grace King Aenar, First of His Name and King of Westeros."

"We accept your allegiance, Uncle," Aenar replied smugly. "Aunt?"

Dany forced herself to breathe out slowly, before speaking. For Rhaegal and Rhaena, she reminded herself. For the children. For the children.

"I, Princess Daenerys Tully of House Targaryen, hereby pledge my loyalty to His Grace King Aenar, First of His Name and King of Westeros."

Aenar clapped and jumped off the throne, grinning widely and making more than just Dany shudder in fear.

"Excellent, excellent," he cried. "'Tis wonderful to know that not_ all _of my paternal kin are traitors. Unfortunately, Aunt, whilst _you_ have seen reason, your brother has not. And treason will not be tolerated in my court. Ser Ilyn! Bring forth the prisoner."

Dany and her husband were dismissed to the side of the room to watch. Her heart was stuck in her throat and she felt nauseous as the doors opened.

Viserys looked even worse than Edmure, when he was dragged forward. One of his leg bones was sticking out, it was so badly broken, and he had been stripped to his smallclothes. Burnmarks, whip scars, cuts and bruises all covered her elder brother's torso. His hair had been roughly pulled out, leaving only some chunks that were red instead of silver. It seemed as if he had not eaten since he'd been taken to the Cells and most of his teeth were missing. People recoiled from him as he was brought before the throne.

Despite all of that, he sneered and spat defiantly at Aenar's feet when he was dragged forward. Blood landed on Aenar's shoes, and the motion allowed Dany to see that all but three or at most four of Viserys' teeth had been removed. The king's eyes flashed angrily, and Ser Ilyn slapped the Prince of Summerhall across the face for his impertinence.

"Viserys of House Targaryen, former Prince of Summerhall," Aenar began grandly. "For resisting Our right to rule, We deem you guilty of high treason, the punishment for which is one thing: death. Ser Ilyn, carry out the sentence."

Dany was not the only lady to scream as they watched her brother's head be cut off. Aenar, on the other hand, laughed gleefully at the sight.


	8. The Old Wolf and the Black Queen

**Disclaimer: I don't own ASoIaF/GoT. **

**Another historical chapter! I actually have a bunch of these in mind, an independent and strong North has so much potential!**

**Read, enjoy and review!**

**Chapter Seven**

**The Old Wolf and the Black Queen**

_**Winterfell: 13**__**th**__** April, 129 After Conquest**_

_Cregan XXXV "The Old Wolf of the North" Stark:_

King Cregan felt a smirk curve up the sides of his lips as he listened to the report. The High Greenseer, the elderly Aregelle Boggs, was abed with illness, but the visions she received were as accurate and strong as ever. The news had come later than he would like, but many of the southrons would still only just be learning of their king's death, so all was well really.

"Excellent, my good man," the king breathed, dark grey eyes glinting in cold satisfaction. "This is truly excellent news that you have brought me. My thanks."

"I live to serve, a Shoilse," the seer replied, bowing.

Cregan nodded absently and waved the man off before giving instructions to one of his guards to fetch his half-sister and his Chancellor, Magnar Ellard Cerwyn. That done, he headed over to gaze out of his window. The King (or Queen)'s Solar in Winterfell was positioned to allow the monarch to look out over both the courtyard of the castle, always bustling even in the dead of night, and over the city itself. The glimpse of their society was meant to serve as a reminder of the responsibility entrusted to the Starks by the Old Gods themselves.

The responsibility of guiding and protecting those within their borders, of defending the True Faith and the Old Gods from the desecration of the Andals and of holding back the White Walker abominations that sought to prey on the living.

He looked down at the courtyard, spotting his son, Rickon, practicing with his blunt wooden sword. His heir was skilled, despite his youth. Watching him reminded Cregan that he needed to find a new wife. It had been over four years since Arra's death of childbed fever, and it was more than past time for Cregan to marry again. His councillors had been pressing him for it, since his cousin's recent death when her ship had gone down whilst returning from a visit to Braavos.

Now, he, Sarra and Rickon were all that was left of the main line, and Sarra could not bear children herself, even if he legitimized her, something she was reluctant to suffer through. The Old Gods had everyone born in their positions for a reason, and to legitimize a bastard always brought up the question of whether or not they were defying the Gods' will.

Everyone else connected to the Weirwood Throne was at least three generations removed from the main line. Of his various cousins, only three had the Stark name still. One of them was excluded by virtue of being a member of the Night's Watch, his cousin Lynara was too young for childbearing still, whilst the last was filled with the wolf's blood, and could not be trusted with anything other than fighting, like most of those Starks.

Having an insecure succession always caused unease in the population, for all Rickon was showing himself to be a worthy heir and the entire royal family was in good health. Winter was Coming, and it would inevitably bring death with it. People knew that, and feared for the security of the kingdom, although Rickon was proving to be a strong heir and the royal family was in good health. People wanted the reassurance of more Starks to protect their independence from the dragons.

Yes, there were many reasons that Cregan needed to sort that matter out sooner rather than later.

The Winterlands needed a queen and the security of extra heirs, Rickon needed a mother, and Cregan himself needed someone to rely on as a partner. It was unfair to his sister, leaning on her the way he was doing right now. Of course, Sarra would never complain, but it cruel of him to rely on her to help him run the kingdom and raise his son all the while she was completing her duties as a Captain in the Warg Guard.

That being said, he could not simply choose any lady to be his wife. For one thing, he could not favour one family over another. The Winterlands' court was not so politic-focused as the South, but he would not insult any of his men if it could be avoided. They were all loyal and deserved to be rewarded and recognized for their actions.

There was more to his marriage than just that, too. Whomever he wed had to fulfil certain criteria: she had to be strong in mind and body, able to provide him with more children whilst serving as Regent for the Winterlands if he were unable to rule while his heir was too young to take his place as king. Unlike in the South, the Winterlands had no official age for allowing a lord or lady to take up their duties. Once they were old enough to push for it and had proven themselves capable of carrying out their responsibilities, they were allowed to do so. But younger than ten namedays at most was considered too young, and even that was strongly pushing the limits of acceptability.

He was broken from his thoughts by a knock at the door. Tundra raised his grey head from where he had been sprawled in front of the blazing fireplace, he grunted and returned to his position, closing his ice-blue eyes. Sarra and Ellard had arrived, then.

"Come!" Cregan barked, retaking his seat behind his desk as his two most-trusted advisors entered and bowed quickly before coming to stand before his desk. None of that excessive fawning the burners insisted on from their social inferiors. It was such a useless waste of time. Cregan truly did not understand the ways that the burners' minds worked.

"My king, you sent for us?" Ellard stated as he and Sarra sat.

Sarra's wolf, Crystal, went over to curl up by Tundra's side. The Alpha sniffed at her, then licked her ear affectionately before coiling his tail around the smaller beta's body protectively. It had been so for years, an interaction that had made even Sarra's hard mother, Aisha of Braavos, smile. Cregan was not a gentle man, he was hard and cold as the arid land that he ruled. But he made an exception for three people: his sister, his son, Ellard and, at one point, his wife.

"I have good news, Sister, Ellard," Cregan nodded to them, letting a smirk curve up the sides of his lips. "The Southron king, Viserys, is dead. He died early in the morn of the third day of March. Despite his will declaring his daughter his heir, his eldest son has declared himself king, under pressure from Dowager Queen Alicent and others."

Proof of the foolishness of the south. Dorne had some more sense, not allowing gender to dictate whom was heir, but the Winterlands' succession laws were clearly far more sensible. Whomever was worthiest, was heir. Gender, age, none of that mattered. Skills _did_.

"The dragons are at war then," Sarra stated, smirking back. "Good. Mayhaps they shall do us and Dorne a favour, and kill each other off."

"Viserys was a weak fool," Ellard mused, nodding. "He ought to have taken advantage of that disgusting incest practice his family does and wed Rhaenyra to Aegon instead of Helaena and Aegon, regardless of the age difference. There have been worse gaps, and 'twould have settled the question of succession. His attempts to heal the divide in his family were useless."

Cregan doubted even the dead dragon had believed he had any success. Foolish man should never have remarried. Or perhaps Jaehaerys was at fault. He had set a precedent by passing over his granddaughter in that Great Council, and laid the grounds for this new dragon civil war in process. So much for Jaehaerys the Wise.

"Aye, but all the better for us," Cregan observed, instead of commenting on the foolishness of incestuous fools who outright stated they thought themselves exceptions to the Gods' wills. Truly, the arrogance was outstanding and incomprehensible. That their subjects accepted it was even more astounding. Something in their water, perhaps?

"According to the reports I have been given, the Dowager Queen Alicent and her allies learned of Viserys' death first," Cregan went on explaining what had happened in the south. "They seized and imprisoned any blacks in the capital and crowned Aegon as Aegon II. Rhaenyra was at Dragonstone in confinement. Upon learning of what happened, she went into premature labour with a stillborn child, a daughter I believe. She then had her own coronation, and declared war."

"Whom is supporting who, are you aware?" Ellard inquired. Cregan passed the letter sent by their spies to his sister, who quickly began to scan it as he replied.

"Rhaenyra has the support of the Vale and the Riverlands, as well as some of the Crownlands," Cregan stated. "Aegon has the Reach, Westerlands and Stormlands, as well as the rest of the Crownlands. Both of them have extra supporters from different Houses in the other kingdoms as well, however. Some southrons apparently do believe in keeping to their word, and recall that they once swore allegiance to Rhaenyra as Viserys' heir. Others are as stupid as most of the south is, and refuse to accept a woman as their ruler."

The others rolled their eyes at that, scoffing. Thousands of years of spear-wives and shield-maidens had long since erased such beliefs from the Winterlands. You need only look at the stories of Queen Siofra "Godsblessed" Stark, or even Dorne's precious Nymeria, to know and understand that gender had little, if any, effect on one's ability.

"So, Aegon is in a stronger position than Rhaenyra is," Ellard mused, tugging lightly on his beard.

"But his sister has more dragonriders on her side," Sarra added thoughtfully. "'Twill be a bloody war, you do not need to have the greensight to know that. What is your will, my king?"

"Call our banners," Cregan instructed them. "Whilst the dragons are busy tearing one another apart and committing kinslaying, we shall take advantage of their distraction to attack. We will remind the south that the North Remembers. I have always believed that revenge is a dish best served cold, do you not agree?"

"I most certainly do, a Shoilse," Sarra smirked as she stood. "I shall go and send out the call immediately. We can be prepared to march within two moons."

"Do so," Cregan agreed, waving her off as Crystal rose from the fur rug to follow her mistress. "Ellard, I will have you act as Regent whilst I am away fighting. Do you accept?"

"I am honoured by your trust and faith, my liege," Ellard replied promptly. "Yes, I consent. By the Old Gods, I shall not fail you."

"I know that you will not," Cregan nodded. "Come now. I will show you what you shall need to focus on whilst I am away. Winter is Coming, and we must prepare for it."

It was convenient timing for a war, he mused to himself. It was a dark thought, but a true one as well. The summer had been short, the harvests poor. Each soldier lost in battle would be one less mouth to feed, and seizing control of a portion of the south would give them more access to grain. It was not the first time his House had resorted to such measures to cope with famine, and likely it would not be last either.

That being said, Cregan would grieve for and honour every life lost. It would not be in vain, for the Winterlands would remain strong and independent, separate and unyoked to the thrice-cursed, grasping dragons who sat on the Iron Throne. They would gain vengeance for those killed when the Conqueror had sought to steal what was not his.

* * *

_**Raventree Hall: September 23rd, 129 AC**_

_Alysanne "Black Aly" Blackwood:_

Alysanne Blackwood strode into the solar where her nephew was arguing with their guard captain, Maester Fredric and their steward, Edmure Vypren, a cousin to Lady Sabitha Frey. They barely glanced at her as they argued. Well, it had the tone of an argument, but all of them seemed to be on the same side, trying to convince her uncertain nephew into agreeing with them.

"We cannot resist any longer, my lord!" Vypren declared in despair, tossing his hands in the air.

"Vypren is correct, milord," Captain Piper agreed grimly, jaw set. "Your late lord father took all but a skeleton guard when he answered the queen's call for troops, and most of the supplies we had. We have not the strength nor the food to hold out against the barbarians!"

Aly did not think the Winterlanders were barbarians. She was more than a little impressed by them, actually. Not to mention envious of the way the Northron women freely fought alongside their men, and were clearly respected by their comrades. She had been considering the situation since they had woken up just over a fortnight after their wounded troops had retreated home after the death of her brother to find that the Winterlander army had laid siege to Raventree Hall, and she had come to several conclusions on what to do.

After all, the Blackwoods had originated in the North, and they followed the Old Gods. But despite their military strength and everything they had done for the southron kingdom, worshipping the Old Gods had kept them low on the hierarchy of the Targaryens' land, for their religion was associated with their enemies and scorned by the septons. Aly had long known that they would never be able to flourish under the dragons' rule, as had her family. All you had to do was look at how their enemies, the Andal-worshipping Brackens, were favoured above them despite not providing so much supplies and men.

And Aly could be respected for her skills, instead of being sneered at for preferring archery to embroidery. She was not in any way opposed to marrying eventually, she wanted to be a mother someday. But she also wanted to be free, and she wanted her daughters to have choices. They could have those choices in the Winterlands, but never in the South.

But if she wanted to turn this situation to her House's advantage, she had to act quickly. Thankfully, Benji was more her brother than her nephew, and he had always been happy to take on board her advice and follow her lead. If only Sam had been so sensible, he might not have died. She could not think about that. She had loved her brother dearly, and now she needed to focus on preserving his legacy and his son's life.

"Aunt, there you are," Benji sighed, looking relieved. "What is your opinion?"

"We need to surrender, Benji," she told him bluntly. "_Now._ Right now. Then, if we work this right, we can save our lives and our House. But we must surrender first, before they knock the walls down, which they can and will. We have no hope of holding out against them, and no way to send for reinforcements, even if anybody were to answer our calls."

Benji hesitated, looking uncertain. He was blooded, but he was also only one-and-ten. "We are sworn to the Tullys," he muttered, chewing on his lip. "Lord Tully ordered us to hold them at bay."

"We owe those upstarts nothing!" Aly exclaimed. "What respect have they ever done for us? How has our loyalty been repaid, how have we been compensated for Sam's death? Surrender, Benji. You owe your loyalty to our _kin_, our_ people_! Surrender, so we are not all killed."

He swallowed, looked at the portrait of Sam, still draped in black, and then gave a solemn, slow nod. "Very well," he whispered. "Raise a white flag on the pole. Request a parley."

* * *

_**Raventree Hall Godswood: September 26th, 129 AC**_

_Cregan XXXV "The Old Wolf of the North" Stark:_

Lord Benjicot Blackwood was a young lad of one-and-ten. He was tall and slim, with thick black curls and eyes a mixture of grey and green. With him constantly was his aunt, the sixteen-year-old Lady Alysanne Blackwood.

She had drawn Cregan's attention immediately. She had the strength of Winter in her veins, he could see it clearly.

She was tall and thin, with long raven curls pulled into a sensible braid to keep them out of her face. Unlike most southron women, she wore a tunic with her family colours and sigil on it over a pair of brown breeches instead of an impractical dress, and her frame could almost be considered boyish, her bosom small and her arms strong. Her green-grey eyes were narrow and thoughtful, studying him with a keen intelligence. She had callouses from wielding a bow on her hands, and she held herself like a warrior. He could tell that she was blooded, not some foolish and spoilt girl playing at being a fighter without understanding the truth of such a title.

She was very different from her southron counterparts, he could tell. They had seized several other keeps with southron women within since starting their campaign, and most of them had been weeping and hysterical, utterly useless and irritating. Several of his people had muttered about slitting their throats to make them shut up, but killing or harming non-warriors was against the laws of the Gods, and so they had to put up with simply gagging the women instead to gain some peace and quiet to continue plotting their advance.

Lady Blackwood was clearly in charge, her nephew looking to her for guidance, and she was clearly good at it as well. She spoke intelligently, with a bawdiness that made his people smirk in amusement, and she clearly cared deeply for all of her people, high and lowborn. She treated her servants as people, another difference to the other southron ladies, who seemed stunned to learn that servants too had names and families. And were willing to sell out their indifferent employers to protect those families.

The king thought that he must be half-in love with her already. How had this amazing woman come to be in the godsforsaken south, where women were considered naught more than baby-makers and raisers, and taught to be so? She clearly belonged in the Winterlands, where she would be able to flourish as the strong and intelligent warrior she was. The south, with its' useless restrictions on women and what they could do, would merely stifle her, which would be a tragedy in and of itself.

"Very well, milady, my lord," Cregan declared once negotiations were done. "We accept your offer. Shall we?"

After a glance for encouragement at Black Aly, as he had heard her being referred to as, Lord Benjicot came to kneel before Cregan, slitting his palm so that his blood dripped onto the roots of the heart tree.

"To Winterfell and the Starks," he began, turning more confident as he spoke and they felt the godswood warm with the Gods' approval. "I, Benjicot Blackwood, pledge the faith of Raventree Hall. Hearth and heart and harvest I yield up to you, my lord. Our swords and spears and arrows are yours to command. Grant mercy to our weak, help to our helpless, and justice to all, and we shall never fail you. I swear it by earth and water. I swear it by bronze and iron. I swear it by ice and fire, in the eyes of the Old Gods who watch us now."

"I accept your pledge, my magnar," Cregan declared, also slicing his palm open and letting his blood drip onto the heart tree to seal the oath. "I vow that you and yours shall always have a place by my hearth and meat and mead at my table. And I pledge to ask no service of you that might bring you dishonour. I swear it by earth and water. I swear it by bronze and iron. I swear it by ice and fire, in the eyes of the Old Gods who watch us now. Arise."

Benjicot rose, shoulders straight and his head held high. The feeling in the godswood could not be misinterpreted. The Gods were pleased by their agreement. Hopefully, they would approve of Cregan's next decision also.

"Magnar Blackwood, Magnara Blackwood," he began, looking at each of them. "I have a thought. My subjects will require extra reassurance of your loyalty."

"Whatever we can do to prove ourselves, my liege, we are willing to do so," Magnar Benjicot said quickly when the king paused.

Black Aly gave a curt nod in agreement, settling a hand on her nephew's shoulder to settle him. She would be a good mother, caring whilst still able to mould his son and any children by her into strong, shrewd warriors and rulers of the Winterlands.

Cregan smiled at the boy and nodded. Sarra and his Wolf Guard, Ulrick Dayne the Sword of Morning, shifted behind him. He had not informed them of the decision he had come to over the past day and a half of negotiating with the Blackwoods.

"Excellent," Cregan stated, clasping his hands behind his back. "I have recently come to the conclusion that I need a new wife. My kingdom needs a queen, and my son requires a mother. I would have the hand of Magnara Blackwood in marriage."

The young magnar's eyes went wide in shock at his declaration, whilst Black Aly grinned, eyes flashing in satisfaction. Well, why wouldn't she be pleased? She was being granted the chance to be queen of the greatest kingdom in the world, and act as mother to the finest boy there was.

"I am honoured to accept, my king," Alysanne said quickly, not giving anybody a chance to speak before her.

"Good," Cregan grinned toothily back at her. "I trust that a wedding here in the godswood will not be an inconvenience for you? We have taken control of enough of this kingdom, I wish to secure it and return to Winterfell to prepare for Winter and introduce you to my son. As queen, you will of course need to be aiding in at least planning any battles, of course. Most queens would also be expected to fight alongside their soldiers, save for if they were with child."

A small test of her character. Everything about her indicated that she was a warrior, but it was confirmed by the delight that sparked in her eyes when he told her she would expected to fight.

"However I may prove my loyalty to the Winterlands, my king," she purred, grinning viciously. "If I might make a suggestion?"

"Of course."

"The Brackens control Stone Hedge, and they left a great deal of their food supplies behind when they marched to answer Aegon's call for troops," Alysanne informed them. "I suggest we liberate those supplies for our own kingdom before returning. Plus, there is the Isle of Faces to consider. It ought to be under the Winterlands' control, not the Andals."

Cregan raised an amused eyebrow at her. "I believe your House and the Brackens have been feuding for some centuries now, have you not?"

"We have been," she admitted shamelessly.

"Well then," Cregan felt himself smile genuinely at her. Oh yes, he had made a good choice. She would be an excellent queen, a partner that he could truly rely on. "I am delighted to have such a sensible betrothed. Let us speak with our commanders and organize this raid."

He extended his arm to her, which she accepted, and they led the way out of the godswood back to the small keep. Their companions followed, seemingly more than a little bemused as to what had just occurred.

Cregan himself was warmed.

Alysanne smelled comfortingly of woodsmoke, not the awful flowery scent that most southron ladies he'd met did. He liked the feel of her small, strong and scarred hand on his arm too.


	9. In the Hands of the Gods

**Disclaimer: I don't own ASoIaF/GoT. This is Sara and Oberyn seeing each other for the first time in years, but it's NOT their actual reunion. Both of them are more focused on events taking place than each other. Next chapter (I think) will have them properly speaking to one another, and probably the Mariah reveal too.**

**Chapter Eight**

**In the Hands of the Gods, Old and New**

_**Winterfell: 8**__**th**__**, March 303 AC**_

_Sara:_

It was an intimidating sight for anybody to behold, Sara mused as she studied the crowd gathered in the Great Hall of Winterfell. The largest Conclave in the Gods only knew how long. Every House had sent a representative, even those from as far away as the Bay of Ice, who usually did not bother to attend in person. They were much too busy struggling to survive in their arid and wight-besieged home to care for attending the regular Conclaves. But when their liege had called, they had come.

Just as always. Loyalty, above all else, was prized in the Winterlands. That was why they had, though reluctantly, consented to follow through with her father's plan after Greenseer Reed had confirmed it would lead to their kingdom being benefitted. They were loyal to the Starks, and they were loyal to their kingdom.

The Great Hall had been done up in anticipation of the coming guests. Sara could not remember the last time that had happened. They were not the type of culture to waste time and money on making themselves look impressive. If one required certain clothing or finery to look authoritative, then they were unworthy of the power that they wielded.

Of course, for the Winterlands, 'done up' meant something far different to the brightly coloured banners and decorations used by the southrons. Theirs was a more simplistic, warrior-esque, style of furbishment. The grey and white banners of her illustrious House were draped on the walls, one large one behind the Weirwood Throne and two smaller ones on each of the large, ironwood doors. Hanging on the walls, covering them in a frightening array of aged steel, was the many swords and crowns taken by the various Stark kings from their defeated enemies over the many millennia they had ruled for.

In a deliberate act, King Aegon I Targaryen's crown and King Daeron 'The Young Dragon' Targaryen's sword had both been placed side-by-side so that the crown and sword's dragon-headed hilt could clearly be seen by all. A less than subtle reminder of the fact that even the two legendary warriors of the dragon line, one of whom had conquered five kingdoms and the other Dorne, had failed to even manage to advance past Moat Cailin or the coast of the North.

Everyone waited. Some of the crowd whispered with one another. Many were displeased with what had been decided by the Conclave, but the Greenseers had spoken, as had the King. None would gainsay those chosen by the Gods of the Forest, River and Stone. They were loyal to their rulers, and would not contest a decision unless they truly believed it would be bad for the kingdom. This would be unpopular, but it would hopefully give long-term benefits. Having peace with one of their enemies was something all of them wanted, even if it pained them to put aside their pride. But the people of the Winterlands always knew that you had to put the pack before your own wants. Sara wondered how the dragons managed to rule at all, when their vassals were eternally plotting to gain power. It seemed like such a lonely and dishonourable way for anybody to live.

Sara glanced out of the corner of her eye at her parents. Her siblings were not there, the king and queen not wanting to risk all of their heirs in case one of the southrons attacked. As such, the Starks were represented by King Eddard, Queen Ashara and Sara herself. The three most important members of the family, and dressed to impress.

King Eddard was silent, a cold and aloof expression on his scarred and weathered face. Her father wore a grey tunic that reached his thighs with white edges over grey breeches. His best boots were laced up to his knees, and he wore a thick cloak that resembled a Stark banner lined with fur over his shoulders, making him even broader than usual. His crown rested on his brow, a large Celestial Bronze coronet forged by Brandon the Builder. It had no jewels, but there were many runes for wisdom, protection, strength and other things carved into it. Ice, their family's ancient sword forged by the Builder for his son the Breaker to fight the Night King and unite the rest of the North, was resting in its sheath against the side of the throne.

Celestial Bronze was similar to Valyrian steel, in that it was sharper, stronger and far-longer lasting than regular metals. But unlike Valyrian Steel, the secret to its' creation was not lost, though her family kept it closely guarded, and it was primarily for fighting the Others.

Queen Ashara had her hair done in a spear-wife's style: the top of her curls braided tightly in a series of plaits to the side of her head, letting you see her scalp, with the rest loose to her shoulders. Her own crown, a silver crown with small pearls in each of the points, rested atop her head. She wore a tunic-styled dress of white with grey on the belt and edges of it, and a silver necklace with a weirwood-tree shaped pendant hung around her neck. Her own expression was as neutral as her husband's, and she had a Celestial Bronze dagger on her hip, as did Sara.

The blades were necessary, but they had sheathed them to show that they were not intending to fight unless in self-defence. Hopefully, Oberyn had recalled her telling him of that, and mentioned it to his group.

She realized that she had thought of him as 'Oberyn', and quickly corrected herself. _Prince_ Oberyn, the Red Viper of Dorne. _Not _Oberyn.

Silence fell over the hall as the doors were opened to reveal the group they had been awaiting, and the herald stepped forward, speaking in the Old Tongue. Jorelle Umber, a cousin to the current Magnar, Greatjon Umber of Last Hearth, had been assigned to act as a translator for the southrons, and Sara saw her whispering to them.

"Aegon VI Targaryen, King of the Six Kingdoms, his wife Queen Margaery, Queen Mother Elia, Prince Oberyn Martell of Dorne and Magnaras Obara, Nymeria and Tyene Sand of Dorne present themselves to His Grace, King Eddard Stark of the Winterlands!" the herald, a cheerful young lad by the name of Lonnel Blackwood, announced loudly.

It seemed to Sara that the tension as the group walked forward was so thick, not even Ice itself would be able to cut through it.

She bit back a surprised gasp when, upon reaching the dais and before anybody could begin to speak, Aegon the Crownless fell onto one knee before her father and mother and bowed his head. Even his own wife looked startled by the action, but the group hastened to copy their king and go onto their knees, a man whom had to be the queen's brother or cousin helping her get down on the floor in spite of her heavily swollen stomach.

"King Eddard," the dragon king began solemnly, looking at her father, who showed no emotion. "I wish to give my sincerest apologies for all that has happened between our two peoples. Three centuries ago, my ancestor and namesake made a claim that he had no right to, starting centuries of war between our people. This is a never-ending war that, I believe, has hampered both of our realms. The fault of the whole war is entirely ours, I acknowledge. 'Twas my House that began the war, and you whom defended yourselves and sought to avenge your lost warriors. Your people have ever acted honourably whilst warring with us, and I regret that we cannot genuinely claim the same thing. I would extend my deepest regrets for the actions of my people that led to so much death, and beseech you to tell me what I can do to gain forgiveness for my family's actions."

Sara held her breath, as did everyone else, whilst the king narrowed his gaze at the dragon. Then, her father rose to his feet, strode down the steps of the dais and lifted Aegon to his feet.

"The North Remembers," Eddard declared in accented Andaii. All Winterlander nobles were taught Andaii in the schoolroom, both due to concerns over the south and due to its' commonality even in the Free Cities, so speaking it allowed everyone to understand his words, both their people and the southrons.

"We do not forget," he went on. The Crownless' eyes flashed with anxiety that lightened to relieved hope as her father continued. "But we_ do _forgive. The goal of a ruler should always be to ensure the safety and prosperity of those the Gods entrust to them, so I must not allow old feuds to dictate what I do in the present. We will work together, Aegon Targaryen, to build an alliance between our realms, and see that we prosper as allies, not stagnate as enemies.

_That_ is how you will gain forgiveness for the lives of those lost in this long war between us. My people laid down their lives to ensure the betterment of the Winterlands, and this will honour that sacrifice. Yes?"

"Yes," the Crownless breathed, relief flashing through his purple eyes as his shoulders slumped, tension easing out of them. The rest of his group also appeared relieved, his wife sighing in relief and smiling as she rubbed her belly, whilst Queen Mother Elia closed her eyes and clasped her hands together, apparently saying a prayer of thanks at how things had gone.

The crowd burst into cheers. They were probably not so pleased by the thought of becoming allies with the south, but that they would no longer be required to pour endless resources and, far more importantly,_ lives _into the constant wars with the Iron Throne, and to preparing for war with the south? _That_ was _definitely_ a good thing in their eyes.

"Stark!" they chanted happily, ignoring the Crownless' own part in things. "Stark!"

"Well, my daughter," Ashara leaned over to whisper in Sara's ear. She had allowed her expression to ease into a smile, and Sara also put on a smile to hide her own concerns about everything. "A historic moment, no?"

"It is not going to be so easy as a few pretty words," Sara replied softly, avoiding looking in the Viper's direction. He was watching her, she could feel it.

"No," Ashara agreed grimly, her light expression not matching her dark tone. "The anger is far too deep for that. But a journey of a thousand miles begins with but a single step, does is not?"

"Aye," Sara murmured. "Aye, that it does."

* * *

_Oberyn:_

Despite the fact that history was being made right before him, with the two kings of Westeros speaking congenially with one another for the first time in history, Oberyn could not remove his gaze from the princess seated on the dais.

She looked just as he remembered her. Her chestnut curls, which had always felt so thick and soft when he ran his fingers through them, were pulled back, with sections pinned against both sides of her head beneath a mermaid-style braid with the rest tumbling freely around her shoulders. She wore a white apron dress under a grey tunic with white embroidery on her sleeves and a leather belt from which a sheathed dagger hung was wrapped around her hips. Her expression was cool and distant, her storm-like eyes having looked at him the same way as everyone else in his party.

Gods, he really was pathetic, was he not? Did she realize what she did to him? Did she understand that she had him wrapped around her finger, in a way that no other, man or woman, had ever managed to, though many had most definitely tried with everything they had to do so?

He forced his gaze away from her, focusing on the two kings.

"We will go to my solar," King Eddard declared gruffly. "We have much to discuss. I have received a letter that you shall see. It is very much _not_ to my liking. You will read it, we will have discussion. Come with me. Bring your advisors, my queen and heir will come also."

"Of course, King Eddard," Aegon agreed. The relief at how astonishingly well things were going was practically pouring off of him, and he was not alone. The Kignsguard stayed on-edge, but so far things were going astoundingly well. Margaery leaned on his arm for support, one hand resting on her belly. Looking at her pale pallor and the way she breathed with great care, Oberyn could not help but feel worried for the young queen.

This was her first pregnancy, and these past few moons had been wearying and filled with travel and stress. She was in her eighth moon now, but Oberyn doubted that she would reach her due date before the child decided to make an entrance. His suspicions were reinforced by her complaints of bad back pain, and the concern occasionally showing in the healers' eyes despite their eternally-stoic expressions when they were checking her over.

The intimidating array of Winterlander nobility watched them leave, speaking with one another in the Old Tongue as their group was guided back out of the hall by King Eddard. Queen Ashara and Sara, or rather, Princess Lysara, joined them.

Sara did not glance at him when she passed, going straight to her cousin who had been lingering in the background and greeting him fondly. Oberyn's party was ignored as the Northrons spoke in rapid Old Tongue, Magnar Robb probably reporting the events of the journey to his kin.

"My love, are you well?" Aegon asked his wife lowly. "You are very pale."

Margaery grimaced back at him, her eyes strained. "I am well, Husband," she insisted, although it seemed as if Egg's arm was all that was keeping her upright. "I promise. Do not be concerned for me. The babe is simply very active, a son as strong as his father."

Aegon kissed her forehead. "So long as they are well, and their mother also, I care not," he assured her. "We can have a thousand daughters and not a single boy, and I shall be delighted, just as long as they and you are well." Margaery smiled at him, brightening at his kind words.

Oberyn was proud of his nephew for his attitude and treatment of his wife. So many men would rather a living son whose mother died birthing him than a healthy wife who bore only daughters for their husband. It was good to know that Egg was far more Elia's son than Rhaegar's. He was a good husband, treating Margaery with respect and kindness and taking her opinions and thoughts into account. He would be a wonderful king once he had regained the Iron Throne.

Already he was making great strides, having met with the King of the Winterlands and hopefully begun laying the seeds for an alliance. Though Aegon had agreed with Oberyn that it would be a bad idea to request the Winterlands lend him troops to fight the Lannisters with. Too much, too soon. But if the Northrons would at least let them stay in their country whilst they communicated with their allies in the south and organized themselves, all would hopefully be well. Unless the Lannisters hired sellswords, they would likely be fine with only their own troops anyway. Even if they did so, they would likely be able to manage, though the damages would be higher.

"Are you well, Queen Margaery?" Queen Ashara asked over her shoulder as they entered the King's Solar.

"I am, Your Grace," Margaery replied. "You know yourself I am sure, the trials of a pregnancy. 'Tis nought more than that."

"Oh, of course," Ashara nodded, her eyes glinting. They were almost Valyrian in colour, but Oberyn was sure that it was merely a coincidence. If there was any Valyrian blood in the Dayne line, it was many centuries back. "I have had seven pregnancies," the Northron queen continued, smiling affectionately. "And four of my children have lived. They are blessings from the Old Gods themselves, and credits to their Houses, as I am sure your own babe shall be."

Margaery's smile grew slightly more strained at the mention of how, of seven babes, only four of Queen Ashara's children had survived infancy. It was a tragic but common thing, and Oberyn absently reached out to touch each of his daughters' shoulders briefly. He had never suffered the agony of losing a child, and he prayed that would not change. Thank the Gods, his younger girls were all safe in Sunspear. Doran would not let anything happen to any of them.

"Well, shall we get down to business?" King Eddard suggested briskly, sitting down behind the desk. His wife and Sara joined him, whilst the rest of them were directed towards waiting seats. Elia and Margaery were given the comfier-looking ones, and the guards were all discreetly left outside. Oberyn could see the unhappiness in the expressions of the Kingsguard at that, but they acquiesced to the wishes of their liege.

"Winter is Coming," Sara murmured, nodding at her father's words. "Time should not be spent idle when preparations must be made."

"Indeed," Aegon sat up straight in his chair. "I wish to formerly request asylum, King Eddard, for myself, my wife and the rest of my family and our retainers. If you will not grant us that, then I instead request that you be so gracious as to aid us in getting to Braavos."

"We will grant you shelter," the Winterlander king replied, his expression blank and voice brisk. "We will not put innocents at risk, and to turn you out now would be the same as infanticide for the babe your wife carries. In addition, I am willing to offer a contingent of soldiers to aid you in reclaiming the Iron Throne for yourself."

Oberyn was not the only one to inhale sharply in shock. He had not dared to hope that the Northrons would agree to help them so much. Not when they justifiably despised the south for all that had happened over the centuries. Even before the Conquest, the Andals had tried many a time to overthrow the Starks and their Gods.

"I must ask why you are willing to do this, Your Grace," Aegon stated after a minute, breaking the shocked silence. "I hoped for shelter and the ability to contact my supporters at the most, but I did not think- I must ask why."

"For several reasons, King Aegon," it was Queen Ashara who spoke. She was obviously a partner to her husband, her throne placed at an equal height to him and with them regularly having silent conversations with one another through their eyes. "First of all, we have consulted with our greenseers and advisors. Your brother-"

"Half-brother," Aegon corrected her quickly and automatically. He had always done his best to remind everyone that he was only related to Cersei's children through one parent, not both, and that Elia was the Queen, whilst Cersei was merely Princess Consort, an attempt of Rhaegar's to try and soothe Dorne's anger at their beloved Princess Elia's mistreatment. In Egg and Rhae's eyes, they were the only children of Rhaegar Targaryen at all. To many, they were certainly his sole legitimate ones.

"Bastard, half-brother, these are all burner words," the queen gave a shrug that made Elia and Margaery look shocked at the lack of 'ladylike' manners, whilst his daughters grinned briefly.

"We use them not. The Gods have people born in a position and as a gender for a reason. We do not question them for that. But you wish to know why we will help you, yes? This is why.

As I was saying, Aenar Targaryen is a madman. And whenever one of you Targaryens is mad and seated on that Iron Throne of yours, they get it into their head to attack us. Maegor, Aerys, so on. We always repeal them, but our duty is to protect our people, and every war we fight is a sign that we have failed them somehow. Our greenseers all predict that Aenar will attack us, and we wish to pre-empt him.

Of course, we wish for a few things in return for our aid."

"Of course," Aegon agreed warily. He adjusted his position, whilst they all prepared themselves. "What is it you desire?"

"First of all," King Eddard took up the reins of the conversation. "You will sign a document swearing to give up all claims to the Weirwood Throne and swear before our Gods and yours that neither yourself not your descendants will not to try to conquer us again."

Expected and reasonable for everyone. Aegon nodded whilst his counterpart continued.

"Secondly, we will make up an alliance, swearing eternal friendship and such. The usual. We will make up a trade agreement also. Our kingdom will have certain preferences over the Free Cities. The details can be worked out later."

"I have no objections to any of this," Aegon consented.

"There is one more thing we desire, King Aegon the Crownless," Sara spoke up. Aegon briefly looked as if he had been slapped by the title she had given him, and Margaery looked outraged. Oberyn sighed, not surprised by her words. The title had occurred to him before, and many others had probably also thought of it. He hoped it would not stick.

"What is it?" Aegon asked, rallying himself admirably.

"The Doctrine of Exception," Sara sneered out the title, all of the Starks looking disgusted. Oberyn recalled one of his and his ex-lover's conversations on their people's differences, and grimaced. This was not going to be pleasant. Aegon frowned bemusedly.

"What of it?" he inquired.

"You will get rid of it," Sara declared regally. "And proclaim that you Targaryens are as mortal and subject to the wills of the Gods as any other. That your ancestors _used_ to have flying lizards to breathe fire at armies to make kings bend the knee to them, does not mean a thing.

You have hearts, blood pumps through your veins. The way your House so arrogantly thinks themselves equal to the Gods, whether 'tis the Gods of the Forest, your Seven or even the Lord of Light, is the height of arrogance and heresy. We will not ally with people who believe such. You will cease your practice of incest, a sin in all religions, as 'tis clear that the Gods do not agree that you are exceptions to their laws. Otherwise, we would not be in this situation, for They would not have punished your House's arrogance by cursing your brother with insanity."

"You cannot dictate such!" it was Margaery who spoke up, Aegon himself appeared stunned speechless by the Crown Princess' words.

"The Targaryens have ruled for three centuries!" Margaery was saying hotly. "The Doctrine has been in place almost as long. It-"

"The Starks have ruled for _eight millennia_," Sara replied curtly and icily. "Since long before Valyria itself was first built, let alone the Doom. And yet, despite those many years of ruling, we do _not_ allow ourselves to believe that we are equal to the Gods. Such is the height of hubris.

This is our offer, you may accept it or refuse it. But anyone who sees themselves as equal to the Gods is a heretic, and we shall _not _ally ourselves with heretics."

"But you are willing to ally with Andals who follow the Seven Scriptures?" Tyene spoke up, raising one of her eyebrows and cocking her head innocently. "You care not that you will be helping Andals, so long as we are proper Andals? I confess, Princess, that I am puzzled by your words."

Sara was not fooled by his thirdborn's air of innocence. "Our entire belief system is around the fact that there are multiple gods," she explained flatly. "We do not stop others from worshipping whichever gods they wish to. But there are limits to our tolerance. For example, the followers of the Red God may not burn sacrifices in these lands. Most importantly, we will not allow the Gods of the Forest, River and Stone to be destroyed. The Andals have long sought to erase all other religions, and _that_, that is what we will not accept. Leave our Gods be, and we have no concerns. But attack them, seek to destroy them and drive their followers from their homes purely for refusing to give up their faith? We do not accept that. We fight back against that."

Tyene fell quiet, swallowing. He reached out and ran a hand over her back to comfort her. Of all his children, Tyene was the most religious. He attributed it to her septa mother reading the Seven-Pointed Star to her as a child, before he had claimed her. Hearing such a harsh analysis of their ancestors' actions would not sit well with her, but he needed her to stay quiet. A warning look towards his other two ensured that they too stayed silent despite their sister's distress.

"I was already planning to end the practice of incest," Aegon spoke up, breaking the tense atmosphere. He squeezed Margaery's hand to keep her quiet as he continued. "I agree to your terms, they are all beyond reasonable and better than I could have ever hoped for. I-"

But he was cut off by Margaery's sudden cry. The young Queen Consort bent over in her chair, clutching at her stomach and moaning in pain. Everybody surged to their feet and the doors were flung open as the guards came running in, obviously fearing that fighting had broken out.

"Téigh agus faigh cneasaí** (Go and get a healer)**!" Sara snapped at them. One of the guards rushed off at her order, whilst the others relaxed at the lack of bloodshed or, in the case of Garlan Tyrell, rushed over to the queen's side. "She is in labour!"

"This cannot be so, 'tis too soon, 'tis too soon!" Margaery wept, shaking her head and crying. "Oh Gods, help me!" Elia stroked her arm, trying to comfort her gooddaughter. His sister's expression was grim when she glanced at him.

"I fear the babe cares not for the timing," Queen Ashara stated grimly. "Pray to the Gods of the Forest and the Seven, for you shall require their aid in this battle, Queen Margaery."

"Oh, Gods, please," Aegon breathed. His eyes were wide with fear for his wife and he gave Oberyn a desperate look. He and Margaery had been betrothed since Aegon was five, and they were the closest of friends, though Aegon's personal tastes meant he could not be _in_ love with her, certainly, he loved her dearly as a friend and partner.

Solemnly, Oberyn reached out and placed a hand on his nephew's shoulder as Healer Greenwood came bursting in with several assistants, snapping orders in the Old Tongue.

Margaery and the babe were in the Gods' hands now.


	10. A Father's Love

**Disclaimer: I don't own ASoIaF/GoT. Glad that everyone's enjoying this still! As usual, read, enjoy and review!**

**Chapter Nine**

**The Love of a Father**

_**Winterfell: 8th, March 303 AC**_

_Aegon:_

Aegon's heart was stuck in his throat as he followed behind the group of healers. Margaery had been laid out on a sort of stretcher, and they were rushing her to a part of the castle specifically set aside for the healers to work on their patients.

A hospital, they had called it. A place designed to be reserved for treating and for quarantining the ill, in order to prevent sickness spreading. There was an area there for childbirth, which was where Margaery would birth their babe.

He wished that Renly was there with him. Renly was his closest friend, his lover and support. Margaery was his partner in life, a genius at politics and at making the people love them. Renly was the one who kept Aegon centred, kept his head from being inflated by his title and crown. Let him relax and just be Egg, instead of trying to be the perfect Crown Prince for a little while.

Aegon could only pray that his lover was safe, and that the Lannisters had not gone after him. Renly had been away when the attack happened, visiting Storm's End. The Baratheons did not get along with one another, but they were still kin. The news that Lord Robert's wife Catelyn was bearing another child had sent Stannis and Renly on a visit to their ancestral home. The Lady of Storm's End was closer to fifty than forty, and had been having a difficult pregnancy. Though it was more about seeing his nieces and nephews than seeing either of his brothers or goodsisters. Of them, most looked down on Renly's free-spirited nature, save for Stannis' wife Selyse, who liked to suck up to her younger goodbrother in the hope of earning Aegon's goodwill through Renly. But he truly adored all of his brothers' children, from Robert's eldest Orys to Stannis' sole child, a girl named Shireen.

All of them would be in danger. Aegon had taken the utmost care to hide just how close he and Renly were, but he was still known to be his closest friend. A possible hostage to be used to lure Aegon out.

But Aegon could not let himself think of Renly right now. It was a hugely disrespectful act towards his wife, whom he also loved dearly and who was currently risking her life to birth his child.

"Please," he prayed as they hurried through the halls, Margaery moaning and weeping in a way he had never seen her do before. She had always been so composed, even keeping calm and controlled during the coup, despite not being remotely trained for such a situation. "Please, Gods. Mother, Maiden, Gods of the Forest, River and Stone, please have mercy. Spare her, spare them both. If you must take one of us, let it be me. Not my child, whom has yet to breathe air. Not Margaery, who is the loveliest and kindest of queens and ladies, the best of wives. Far better than I deserve to have. Please, please, spare them, please."

They arrived at the Hospital Tower quickly, where more healers and assistants descended upon them. Healer Greenwood barked orders in the Old Tongue at the other healers as Margaery was carried into a room with a strange chair-like contraption in the centre. Aegon faltered at the door.

He wanted to go in, to stay at his wife's side as she laboured to bring their child into the world. But he had always been taught that childbirth was a woman's area, and the only male involved in it should be a maester if there were any problems.

Apprentice Healer Raya Frost glared at him. "Come!" she barked sharply in her accented Andaii. "Your wife, your child! You be there!"

"Will I not get in your way?" he asked anxiously, even as he stepped inside. "You must save them! You can save them, can you not?"

"This not worst case we deal with and both survive and are well," she assured him, expression softening a fraction. "But you stay. Support southron flower queen. She need you, no other family here. She scared, she need you."

He nodded, resolve hardening. He wanted to be there anyway, and Apprentice Frost was right that his wife needed him. He hastened to Margaery's side, taking her limp hand in his own. The healers were hurrying around, setting up blankets, pouring hot water into a basin and grabbing various vials. Margaery lay on the strange chair, and she twisted her head weakly to look at him.

"Egg, you're here," she murmured weakly, eyes glazed and face sweaty. He had never seen her in such a state, it frightened him deeply. So many women died of childbed, was he about to lose her? He was not_ in _love with her, but he truly did love her.

"I am," he assured her. "I am here, and I'll not leave your side. You are doing wonderfully, Margaery. Our babe will be with us soon."

"The heir to the Iron Throne, born in the heart of the Winterlands," she smiled feebly. "What will we name him?"

Aegon swallowed. "Or her," he reminded her. "It may be a girl."

"I promised you a son," she replied softly, eyes half-closed. "A strong son to be your heir."

"I do not care so long as you are both healthy," he insisted, his throat tight and eyes stinging. She looked so frail, how would she ever manage to push? "I would be the luckiest man alive to have dozen beautiful girls the image of their mother with your strength and spirit."

She gave a weak smile. "A dozen sons and daughters," she murmured. "How lovely. I am blessed to be your wife."

"No," he disagreed, eyes burning. "I am the one who is blessed to be your husband. Be strong, Margie, please. For the babe, for me, please."

"I am trying," she whispered. "But I am so tired. I want my mother."

"Every woman want her mother at this time," Queen Ashara appeared at their sides, expression gentle and sympathetic as she wiped Margaery's forehead with a damp cloth. "But I fear you have myself and your goodmother instead."

"Everything will be fine," Aegon's mother had also arrived, grasping Margaery's hand and squeezing it. "Do not fear, Margaery. All will be well."

"When you is holding your child in your arms, all of this is being worth it," Queen Ashara added confidently.

"You will stay?" Margaery looked over at Aegon again. Her large brown eyes were frightened and tears swam within them, making them shine.

"I will not leave your side," Aegon promised her again. "I swear, Margie. I will not go."

* * *

_Oberyn:_

They were shown to a small sitting room to await news, whilst Egg and Elia went with Margaery into the birthing room. Ser Barristan was also allowed in to guard them, but the healers banned the rest as distractions, much to Garlan's dismay. It was right beside them, and even with the thick stone walls separating them, they could hear the queen's cries of pain. Each time one echoed, the pacing Ser Garlan flinched violently and twitched. Oberyn knew how he felt. He had been the same, waiting for Elia to deliver her own babes.

Sara and her father had disappeared, presumably gone to attend to the various affairs that came with running a kingdom (actually running it, instead of leaving it to their advisors to rule in their stead as Rhaegar and Aerys both had. Sara had been more than a little scornful when he had inquired about the Winterlands' council and her leisure time. _"If I have a moment to spare, then I am doing something wrong as Princess, and my father would be the same. 'Tis our kingdom, and our responsibility to run it,"_ she had scoffed. _"No wonder your realm is so unstable, with kings who would rather bed a dozen different women than rule._")

Finally, Margaery's screams ended. It seemed as if her labour had lasted for eternity, though Oberyn only had to glance at the sky to see that it had actually been very quick for a first birth.

They all rose from their seats as the door opened and Aegon came out with Queen Ashara following him. He was wide-eyed and pale, holding a small white bundle close to his chest with the utmost care. They all rose and hurried over to his side.

"I am a father," the young king announced, sounding awestruck. He adjusted the babe, allowing them to see a small red face with a tuft of silver hair. "Allow me to present Crown Prince Daeron Targaryen, heir to the Iron Throne and Prince of Dragonstone. Future King of the Six Kingdoms."

"Hail the prince," Ser Barristan declared, going down on one knee, with the rest of them copying his actions.

"What of my sister the queen?" Garlan asked eagerly once they had all risen to their feet once again. "Is she well?"

Aegon's jaw tightened. "The healers are with her now," he replied. "As is Mother. They said to leave, that they required space to work."

Garlan paled and swallowed, clenching his hands into fists and tugging on his hair in distress. Oberyn rested a hand on the younger man's shoulder to comfort him. Everyone exchanged grim looks. Childbirth was a war in and of itself, and Margaery's past few weeks of pregnancy had been as far from smooth as possible. The earlier a mother went into labour the more dangerous it was for both herself and the child, and Margaery had still been some weeks away from her due date.

"Our healers are the best," Queen Ashara spoke up in her musical yet accented voice. "Best in Winterlands, best in Westeros. They do all they can for her. I give my word, as Queen of Winterlands. They do everything they can."

Aegon nodded, worry glinting in his eyes before he glanced down at his newborn son, expression softening from worry into adoration and love. "He is amazing," he breathed with the reverence reserved for a (loving) new father with his child.

Oberyn hoped that he would never have to reveal to his nephew that Rhaegar had neither attended his birth or Rhae's, nor had he been so awed by them when they were presented. He had simply inquired as to the genders and health of his children, then gone back to his books. There had been almost no concern at all for Elia, bedridden for half-a-year by Rhaenys' difficult birth and too damaged to have a third babe after Egg's, resulting in the marriage to Cersei that had caused such catastrophe for them all.

His sister's children resented their father, but Rhaegar had still been their father. They did not need to know the details that proved just how little he had cared for them and their mother.

**PoWPoSPoWPoSPoWPoS**

There was still no news on Margaery when some servants appeared and escorted Oberyn and his daughters to the rooms that had been prepared for them. Aegon and Garlan had refused to go, as had Elia (who had also ended up being sent out by the healers), meaning the rest of the Kingsguard had to stay as well. But Oberyn could see the exhaustion his girls were trying to hide, and knew they would not leave unless he did as well. As such, he kissed Elia's forehead, clapped Egg's shoulder and muttered some encouragement to him, then ensured his girls got to bed so that they could rest. All three of them were grown women now, but he still saw the little girls who followed him like ducklings when he looked at them.

It was a simple, but spacious bedroom. The walls were grey stone, with a large fireplace and several torches lit and keeping the place warm. Of course, the whole keep was shockingly warm. Oberyn was curious as to how they managed that, though it made sense that they put effort into such things, just as his people put work into figuring out different ways to keep their own palaces and keeps cool. If they did not focus on such things, the Winterlanders would all end up freezing to death. A large double bed piled with furs took up the majority of the centre of the room, with more fur rugs covering the floor and a wardrobe against one of the walls. Finally, there was a desk set beneath a narrow glass window. A door opened into a privy with a bathtub, one that was filled with still-steaming water when Oberyn arrived.

He gratefully took advantage of the bath, relieved to peel his dirty and travel-worn clothes off his body and wash off the grime covering him.

He stiffened and reached for his dagger when the door opened as he washed his hair, then relaxed slightly as he spotted his companion in the reflection of the mirror beside him. A moment later, Sara had joined him in the tub, sitting behind him and cradling his hips with her legs as she took over washing his tangled hair.

"I thought you were ignoring me," Oberyn said mildly, closing his eyes and savouring the feel of her calloused, elegant fingers in his hair, undoing the knots with care.

If she was angry with him over the end of their relationship, she did not allow it to make her pull at his hair painfully, or to dig her short but sharp nails into his skin. A bit of a shame, that. She had frequently been full of rough passion in bed. It had often been a mixture of a fight and intimacy with her. If it was not, then it was a tender lovemaking that revealed a gentler side of her that she rarely let be shown.

"I am not so childish," Sara responded. "I simply have more important things to do than pander to the whims of a pampered southron prince."

He smirked at the familiar mockery, then bit back a moan of desire when she began running a washcloth over his back. This was not the time, he knew that, yet her touch aroused him easily. "Ah yes, the many trials and tribulations of being heiress to a kingdom." He was not totally teasing her, for he knew how much effort she put into her duties. But he had liked to tease her, try and pierce the icy façade she put up.

"I am still the heiress at least, though that is no thanks to you," she replied curtly.

He frowned in confusion. "I do not comprehend your meaning, my princess."

"You will soon enough," she sighed heavily. "I did not wish to do this, but you have the right to know." She finished washing his back and rose from the tub, stepping outside and barely making the water stir. "Dry yourself," she ordered him briskly as she snatched her tunic dress off the ground where she'd left it. "Then I will show you. I will wait outside for you to finish."

Curious, Oberyn was quick to leave the now-tepid bath behind, patting himself dry with a sheet and pulling on the clothes left out for him. They were Northern clothes, a long tunic made of navy wool and a pair of leather breeches with fur-lined leather boots that laced up to his knees.

As promised, Sara was waiting outside his chambers for him. She leaned against the wall opposite the door with her arms crossed beneath her breasts, speaking quietly in the Old Tongue to a man in the grey uniform worn by the guardsmen of Winterfell.

On his arrival, she pressed herself away from the wall, waving him after her as she began striding away without a word. Taking her cue, Oberyn stayed silent as well as he fell into step with her.

It was quickly obvious that she was bringing him to the section of the castle reserved for the Starks themselves. At least, he assumed it was the family's rooms, for the wing was heavily protected, and located in a secure point of the grounds. It was near to where the king's solar was, but far enough that personal moments and business ones could be kept separate, whilst still allowing the king to get to his office quickly in the event of an emergency.

Guards and servants bowed their heads respectfully to their princess as they passed, casting Oberyn disdainful looks. Unlike those in the Red Keep, they did not pause in their goings about to give obeisance, simply acknowledging Sara's presence quickly as they went about their duties.

"_My people do not waste our time with pointless courtesies and pretty words,"_ she had scoffed at him once, rolling her eyes at him when he had bowed and kissed her hand. _"Winter is Coming and we must be ready for it. There is never any time to lose."_

Sara came to a halt in front of a door with a pair of Wolf Guards before it. They nodded at her, but kept their eyes fixed on Oberyn, hands resting on their sword-hilts. He tried to keep his body language relaxed, not wanting to trigger a diplomatic incident by accidentally provoking a guard.

Sara glanced back at him and sighed, squaring her shoulders, then reached out to push open the door. "Come along," she instructed him. "In here."

He followed her, understanding finally dawning on him as he took in what was clearly a nursery for a young girl.

Though the walls were still the same grey stone as the rest of the keep, they had been covered by colourful hangings to brighten up the room. Like in his own chambers, a large fireplace took up most of the far wall, but it was sealed off by a metal grate to keep the room's little owner from being burned by the roaring flames of the fire. Thick fur rugs covered the floor, and in the centre of the chamber a pair of small girls were playing with several dolls under the careful supervision of a woman with a hard face and shaggy brown hair dressed in a thigh-length tunic and breeches like a man. A wicked-looking knife was tucked into her belt, and the callouses on her hands along with the scars peeking out from her clothes said that she knew how to use the weapon from experience.

Good, it was reassuring to know that his youngest was cared for by someone who was able to protect her.

Oberyn focused on his newly-discovered daughter. It was easy to tell which one was his, and not just due to the ages. She had the same golden skin as he, with tight Rhoynar curls and her hair seemed to be halfway between his raven colour and her mother's chestnut locks. She wore a lilac dress with her feet in a pair of woollen stockings, and both she and the other child looked up on their entrance, revealing that his daughter had Sara's grey eyes and Elia's fey-like features. When she smiled at the sight of her mother, she showed off a missing front tooth.

She had to be at least three years old, and he had not known of her until now. He would never have known of her, had it not been for the coup and his idea of fleeing North.

How could Sara have kept this from him? He had spoken to her of how much he loved his daughters, all of them. Why had she not reached out to him? At the least, she should have told him of the girl's existence, even if she did not let him know her personally.

"Mamaí **(Mama)**!" his child squealed in delight, stumbling to her feet and dashing over to throw her slim form into Sara's welcoming arms. He smiled at the sound of her sweet, bell-like voice, even as his chest ached to know that he had missed her first words and first steps.

He had sworn, after discovering Obara's existence and realizing he had several children out in the world, that he would never fail as a father again. He had lavished attention on all of his girls, taken care to ensure that he would know should one of his lovers become with child and that he would be there for every possible moment of his girls' lives. But, due to Sara not informing him of her existence, he had failed his youngest daughter. He still did not even know his youngest's name.

"M'iníon **(my daughter),**" Sara cooed at her. "Tá duine anseo chun bualadh leat. An bhfuil sé sin ceart go leor leatsa? **(Someone is here to meet you. Is that alright with you?)"**

She tilted her head the same way her mother did when curious, the gesture utterly adorable as she scrunched her button-nose up in exaggerated thought, then gave a nod.

"Sea, tá sé sin ceart go leor** (Yes, that's alright)**," she consented. Well, he assumed she was agreeing to something from her nod.

Sara smiled and kissed their child's forehead, shifting the girl onto her hip and turning to the servant, who had stood and collected the other girl, presumably the little Princess Serena.

"Go raibh maith agat, Osha **(Thank you, Osha)**," Sara said to her. "Tóg Serena áit éigin eile i gcóir tamaill, maith sé do thoil é.** (Take Serena somewhere else for a while, please)**"

Osha frowned, but gave a curt nod. "Mar a deir tú, Bhanprionsa **(As you say, Princess)**," she consented, before looking down at the elder of her charges. "Tar liom, Banprionsa. Is féidir linn na capaill a feiceáil.** (Come with me, Princess. We can see the horses)**"

"Sea, sea, **(Yes, yes)**" the princess clapped in delight. "Slán Mya, slán Sara, slán Magnar!** (Bye Mya, bye Sara, bye Magnar)**" She waved at them as she was escorted away, but Oberyn barely noticed, too entranced by the sight of his daughter in her mother's arms.

Mya.

"Is that her name then?" he asked, voice low and husky. "Mya?"

"Mariah," Sara corrected him. "Serena was too small to pronounce it properly when she was born, and Mya ended up sticking."

Her expression was even enough, but she did not quite meet his gaze as she turned to him, Mariah still balanced deftly on her hip. If she felt guilty, then he was bitterly pleased about it. She ought to feel bad, for depriving him of the chance to know his own daughter for so long.

He swallowed. Mariah. "You named her for my grandmother?" he inquired, as evenly as he could. Mariah was watching them with wide eyes, and he wondered if she could understand them. He smiled at her, using the one he kept solely for his children, and utter love filled his heart when she smiled back shyly, her grey eyes lightening. It was the same feeling he felt each time he laid eyes on one of his children for the first time, a feeling of boundless love and joy, mixed with the certainty that he would burn the world to ashes, just to see her smile.

Sara nodded, casting her own eyes to the ground. "Aye," she confirmed gruffly. "And then, there was a Mariah Stark as well. King Cregan and Queen Alysanne's youngest daughter. She was a very successful ambassador to the Free Cities, and later she married the Sealord of Braavos and helped to repel an invasion before her death at sea. Your grandmother was a good ruler, even if she was a burner, so it seemed like a good way to honour both sides of her heritage."

Mariah looked between them with wide eyes, expression curious.

"Does she speak Andaii?" Oberyn asked, but the answer didn't come from his ex-lover.

"Yesh!" Mariah clapped her small hands and smiled proudly. Her words were accented and slurred from the gap in her teeth, and she shone with delight at her ability. "I speak Andie! I is being named Mariah Snow of House Shtark. Who is you being?"

Oberyn smiled adoringly at her. "What a clever little lady," he complimented her, hearing the pride in his own voice. "I am Oberyn Martell, of Dorne. I am your father."

"M'athair **(My father)**?" she said, blinking in surprise and reverting to the Old Tongue. She looked at her mother for confirmation.

"Sea, a grá mó chroí, **(Yes, love of my heart-term of endearment in Irish)**" Sara confirmed gently. "Is é d'athair. Tá gliondar croí air mbualadh leat faoi dheireadh. An rachfaigh tú chuige?** (He is your father. He is delighted to meet you at last. Will you go to him?)**"

Mariah looked back at him thoughtfully, then reached out to allow him to take her into his arms. A part of him he had not known was missing seemed to slide into place as he settled her onto his hip, stroking a dark curl out of her lovely little face and smiling down at her.

"I have not had a father before," she informed him, scrunching up her nose.

"I am glad to be your first, then," he replied, feeling his smile widen at her innocence. "What do you think, will I do?"

She studied him intently, her narrowed eyes reminding him of her mother in a sweeter and much more innocent way, then gave a deliberate nod. "Yes, you do," she decided. "Come, I show my dolls. You like dolls?"

"I love dolls," he answered her seriously as he carried her over to the centre of the room were the dolls were scattered and knelt there, setting Mariah down next to him, where she promptly sat and reached for her toys. "They are the best of games."

Sara took a seat in the rocking chair to watch them, but he ignored her, focusing instead on nodding along as Mariah passed him doll after doll, naming each of them and explaining their elaborate backstories.

Many would consider him unmanly for it, but when he was with his daughters he loved to do whatever made them happy. He would endure the ridiculousness of having his hair braided with ribbons if it made Lorie and Dorea smile, and he would kneel on the ground until his knees ached playing with porcelain dolls the size of his index finger in woollen dresses from the Free Cities if it would convince Mariah to accept him fully and love him as her father.

He had already missed so much of her life, he would not allow himself to miss a moment more.


	11. Arguments and Agreements

**Disclaimer: I don't own ASoIaF/GoT.**

**A/N: so, some info in response to a review: Cersei's eldest two children are, in fact, Targaryens in this, the youngest is Jaime's. While Jaime is in the Kingsguard and still in love/sleeping with her, Cersei wasn't opposed to bearing Rhaegar's children as she was Robert's. She wouldn't have bothered continuing with him, because it's Cersei and her only loves are her children and power, but she was angry with Rhaegar and wanted revenge for his neglect and refusal to name her Queen.**

**Chapter Ten**

**Arguments and Agreements**

_**Winterfell: 9th, March 303 AC**_

_Sara:_

"You should have told me," it was the first thing Oberyn had said since Mariah had gone to sleep and they had left her in her room, Sara guiding him to her own chambers just down the hall in preparation for this exact conversation.

Or to be more specific, Mariah had abandoned her toys and climbed onto her newly-discovered father's lap where she had demanded a story with all the imperiousness that came from being raised as royalty, no matter what kingdom you were born in. The child had been fascinated to hear the tale of Nymeria's flight to and conquest of Dorne instead of any of the Winterlander tales she was familiar with, but had fallen asleep as Oberyn was telling her of how Nymeria and Mors Martell had fought Yorick V Yronwood and his allies for nine years before eventually managing to defeat him. Sara had sat in the rocking chair the whole time, watching in silence as they played and chatted and got to know one another.

She was not oblivious to Oberyn's pain that he had missed so much of his daughter's life. In Braavos, it had seemed like about half of their conversations had involved her old lover waxing poetic about his daughters' many talents and how utterly flawless all of them were. The (second now) youngest of whom had been a toddler at the time. By now Loreza was probably around seven. It was obvious how much he adored his girls, and that adoration had clearly spread to Mariah now that he knew of her.

Oberyn had carefully carried their small daughter to the bed after she'd drifted off in his arms, tucking her in and kissing her forehead gently before he and Sara had left, neither of them saying a word until they at last arrived in the bedchamber, when Oberyn finally spoke his mind. Sara herself had been dwelling on how well Mariah had taken to him. Although Mariah was typically a light sleeper, she had not stirred as her father put her to bed. Already, she trusted him utterly, despite having always been taught to be wary of strangers and following that rule carefully on the rare occasions she met somebody new.

The way Mariah had taken to her father was amazing, but then again Oberyn had always been good with children. Even back in Braavos, when Sara had refrained from killing him solely due to not wanting to risk a war, she had grudgingly admired his skill with young ones, whether they were highborn children of the bankers or else street urchins who had gasped in awe and delight when he gave them coins.

Sara pursed her lips. She hated to feel guilty about anything, but she felt guilty about this. "I have a duty to the Winterlands," she said shortly. She still thought her decision had been the right one for her kingdom. But being right for the Winterlands did not mean that it had been right for Oberyn, or Mariah. Or even Sara herself.

"A duty to deny me the right to know of my child?" Oberyn scoffed, his dark eyes flashing. His anger had made them turn from a dark chocolate brown to midnight black, as if she were staring right up at a star and cloudless sky during the hour of the wolf. It was entrancing.

"A duty to keep my kingdom free from the Iron Throne's influence, to shield my gods from being subverted by your own," Sara replied tightly. "Bearing her very nearly cost me my inheritance, the kingdom was so outraged I had lain with a burner. I had to retake the Trials to prove myself, and spend years working to regain my people's respect."

"And everyone who knows you knows that the Weirwood Throne is all that matters to you," Oberyn sneered at her. "For all you scorn the south for our supposed obsession with the Iron Throne, you are as determined to be the most powerful in your kingdom."

Sara glared back at him. A part of her could acknowledge and admit that he had cause to be upset with her. But admitting that he had a point would make her feel guilty, and she hated that.

"It's different," she retorted. "I was _born_ to wear the crown, raised from birth for it. I do not desire it for my own gain, but because I wish to better my people's lives."

"You cannot keep me from her any longer," Oberyn replied, switching the subject to the real focus. "I refuse to miss more of her life."

Sara gritted her teeth. "You cannot have custody of her," she answered curtly. "I am not a simple whore, or a corrupt septa, or even a mere noblewoman. Mariah is of House Stark, and Starks belong in Winterfell. You would have to get through every fighter in the north, and most of the non-fighters too, in order to take her from me."

He glared back at her. "I am not saying that I want to take custody of her," he returned coldly. "I _do_, but I am a reasonable man. I know perfectly well that you will not allow it, and your people would kill me, and probably everyone else in my party, if I tried. But I will _not _miss more of her life. She is my daughter, and I have the right to know her."

Sara sighed heavily and glanced away. She wanted to hold down to her anger, but it had already gone down to a weak simmer. She always found it impossible to be angry with him for long; especially when he was right.

"You are correct," she admitted, having to force the words out. "You have the right to know her, and now that Mariah knows of you, she will want to know you, and she will be eager to meet her sisters once she knows of them. I will not apologize for keeping her from you. Your nephew seems a sensible enough man, given that he's a southron burner, but the previous king was _not_. As you know better than me.

It being known that a Stark child had kin in the Red Keep and Sunspear could have endangered my people. She is my heir until I have a legitimate child who goes through the Trials. I could not take the risk.

But I will not prevent you from knowing her further. I will not agree to her going south, but I will consent to you visiting her and writing to her."

Oberyn's gaze bored into her. He was still angry, but he too had cooled slightly after she had agreed to allow him to know their child.

"Often," he began. "Ambassadors are sent to represent their countries in allied kingdoms. It seems to me, that if this alliance between the Six Kingdoms and the Winterlands is to succeed, we ought to have ambassadors in each other's courts who stay for a long term, instead of just long enough to negotiate a treaty. As the king's uncle, who has some familiarity with and understanding of your culture, not to mention respect for them, I would be a logical choice for such a position."

"You would," Sara agreed evenly. "Though, are you sure your thin southron skin will be able to survive the cold of my lands? We do not have your perfumes and salves to keep your skin soft and smelling of spices."

He reached out to grab her upper-arms and pull her close to his chest. Her breasts were pressed against him, she could feel his heart thumping steadily beneath her palms, laid on his chest for balance as she tilted her head back to meet his gaze properly.

"Oh, I smell of spices do I?" he whispered down at her, his voice full of dark promise. Her tongue darted out to wet her dry lips and he followed it with his eyes before returning them to her own. "Well, I am certain that I can manage, _weak southron_ that I may be. There are many ways to keep warm, besides sitting by a fire."

She had sworn, multiple times to multiple people, that she would not do this again. She was now betrothed to Edderion Holt, a good man and a good friend. He was good to her, and good to Mariah. But then again, neither of them expected fidelity from the other in their marriage. Not given Ed's long-term relationship with Artos Ryder and her own status as the future queen. She had agreed to permit him to continue his relationship so long as he was discreet, and nobody outside of her parents would ever consider dictating her own actions to her. The important part was that any children she bore had Stark blood, after all.

If Oberyn had been a follower of the Gods of the Forest, Stone and Rivers, there would never have been a problem with their relationship, whether she wed him or not. It was his faith that caused the problem.

Which brought her back to the look in his eyes. He was bending his head to hers, but not quite kissing her. There was a look in his eyes that said that the next move was hers to make.

She had promised she wouldn't do this again. Would not risk the influence of the Seven and the south creeping into the kingdom through her lover holding influence over her. But she also knew Oberyn. He would not use her like that. And she would notice if he tried to intervene in her kingdom's affairs. Her advisors would notice, and act.

She still shouldn't do this.

She went up on tiptoe and crushed her lips against his. This was a bad idea. She was the future Queen of the First Men and Lady of the Winterlands, the Shield of the Realm, the Warden of the Wall and Defier of the Others. She was not allowed to make bad decisions.

But somehow, when it came to Oberyn Martell, it seemed as if she could never make good ones. He half-ripped her dress from her, and she hooked her legs around his hips. She was exhausted, trying to be the perfect heiress all the time. This was a bad idea, but she just couldn't help herself.

* * *

_Aegon:_

She was stirring. Aegon's breath caught in his chest and he leaned forward, feeling his eyes widen and hearing the imploring tone in his voice as he spoke her name.

"Margie? Can you hear me?"

His wife groaned and turned her head to him, eyes half-open and dazed. "Egg?" she mumbled. "What? Where-? The babe!" Her eyes widened in realization as she recalled the events leading to her exhaustion, and she struggled to rise from the bed. She was too weak however, and barely managed to lift her head.

Aegon hastily reached out to push her back down. "Daeron is fine," he assured his queen. "And you will be well also. 'Twas a difficult birth, but these healers are skilled, thank the Gods. And apparently they swear vows in front of heart trees to always do everything in their power to heal their patients as fully as possible no matter what the circumstances and so they have with you. You will need to rest for some time, but you will recover."

"I thought I was going to die," Margaery admitted. Her eyes were full of unshed tears and her lip trembled. "I was certain that- and all I could think was that I would never see home again, I would die birthing my son in a foreign kingdom that has been our enemy for centuries and is now our best, our only hope." She broke off with a sob, and Aegon didn't know what to say. Feeling stricken, he perched on the side of the bed, lying beside her, and pulled her to his chest, stroking her long brunette curls and murmuring soothingly to her.

"It's alright," he crooned gently. "You are well, Daeron is well, everything is going to be fine, I promise. Just rest, all will be well."

"I want to see him, to hold him," she requested, giving him a hopeful look.

"Alright," Aegon agreed easily. He released her and rolled off of the bed. He paused long enough to help her sit up by propping several waiting pillows beneath her back. Then he headed over to the fur-lined cradle covered by a thick woollen blanket to help keep the small infant sleeping within snug and warm, that was tucked into the corner furthest from the window. He shifted the cover out of the way, pausing a moment to again stare in awe at Daeron, who was curled up with his tiny thumb stuck in his mouth, his little eyelashes fluttering delicately as he dreamed whatever it was that babes dreamed of.

Taking the greatest of care, as if his son were the most delicate treasure in the world, and to Aegon it felt as if he was, Aegon reached down and picked him up. Daeron snuffled and squirmed slightly as Aegon removed him from the cradle and held him against his chest. Hearing the thump-thump of his father's heart settled the child, and Daeron exhaled softly and turned to snuggle closer to him. Holding Daeron securely, Aegon headed back over to the bed where Margaery was waiting eagerly for them.

She reached out for their son as soon as Aegon was facing her, and he sat down beside her after putting Daeron into her arms. Noticing the difficulty she had holding their son's weight in her weakened state, Egg quickly shoved a few more cushions beneath her arms, taking some of the strain off of her.

"He is wonderful," Margaery breathed, her voice awed.

"He has a wonderful future ahead of him, I know it," Aegon replied, sure that he had the unmanliest expression of adoration on his face as he looked at the beautiful scene of his wife holding their firstborn. "He will surpass both of his namesakes. The Young Dragon and Daeron the Good will be nothing compared to him."

"Aye," Margaery agreed, looking reverently at their child. "Daeron Targaryen, Third of His Name, King of the Andals and the Rhoynar, Lord of the Six Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm. The first king born into an era of peace with the Winterlands."

"His reign will be a Golden Age," Aegon agreed. He leaned over to kiss her gently before pulling away again. "I cannot thank you enough Margaery, for giving him to me, to us. You are the best of wives, of women and queens. Thank you so much for him."

"I have a good husband to help me be so good at being a wife and queen," she replied with a warm smile.

He felt a stab of guilt. Margaery was kind and clever. She deserved a husband who was able to love her completely, not one who loved another.

She knew him too well, her expression softening. "You cannot help being the way the Gods made you, Egg," she murmured to him. "My brother Loras is the same as you, remember? I know that you love me, even if 'tis not the love of songs and stories. You have always been a wonderful husband to me. I was truly blessed in my marriage, and I am not speaking of the Crown. And even if you were not, I still could not wish for another life. Not now. I mean,_ look_ at him Aegon.

Look at what we have made together, at what we have brought into the world. Is he not the most magnificent babe you have ever seen? How is it possible to love anybody so much?"

"I don't know," Aegon replied, looking at Daeron's little face. The newborn continued to sleep, head resting on his mother's breast. Determination filled his body. "Daeron is destined to be king one day," Aegon declared. "And so it shall be. I promise you, Margie. I will get back the Iron Throne, no matter what it costs us. For him. For his future."

"I know you will," she replied simply, as if she had never, unlike him, believed otherwise.


	12. The Young Dragon

**Disclaimer: I don't own ASoIaF/GoT. **

**The Young Dragon's Conquest of this universe! Then back to the present to plan the Lions' Fall from Grace in the next chapter! If you're one of those who dislikes the historical chapters, you're welcome to skip and wait for the next chapter.**

**Thanks to my readers and reviewers, you guys are awesome!**

**Read, enjoy and review!**

**Chapter Eleven**

**The Downfall of the Young Dragon**

_**Sunspear: March 13**__**th**__**, 158 AC**_

_Daeron "The Young Dragon" Targaryen:_

It was the highlight of his reign so far, Daeron knew. He had succeeded where even his distant grandfather, Aegon the Conqueror himself, had failed. He had conquered Dorne. He had not even needed dragons to do so, and he was but five-and-ten namedays, seated on the Iron Throne not even two years! Truly, it was a great day for his dynasty. It would only be topped by his next victory, when he forced the arrogant King Cregan to bend the knee as well.

Daeron sat regally atop his transportable throne, watching as the Prince of Dorne, Garin Martell, was led forward by his Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, Ser Gwayne Crackclaw, in order to officially yield to Daeron before his most powerful vassals would copy him.

All his life, Daeron had dreamed of completing the Conquest his ancestor had begun, and now he was half-finished.

"I, Garin Martell, Prince of Dorne, do hereby pledge my allegiance to the Iron Throne, in the Light of the Seven-Who-Are-One," the defeated prince declared, his dark eyes burning with anger and resentment. He would need to be carefully watched. "So it is said, so mote it be."

"I accept your allegiance, Prince Garin," Daeron consented regally, waving at the man to allow him to stand. The man's expression was utterly blank as he rose and was guided to the side in order to allow his bannermen to also come forward, one by one, and swear their allegiance to the King.

It took the best part of two hours for it all to be finished with, and once the last of the Dornish nobles, Ser Santager, had pledged his loyalty, Daeron rose to his feet.

"This is a great day for Westeros," he declared, spreading his arms wide. "For now we are almost one realm at last, instead of half-a-dozen different kingdoms, constantly warring with one another. I cannot express my delight to know that my ancestor's dream is coming true. However, the Unification of Westeros is not yet complete. The Winterlands continue to resist, refusing to see sense and yield to the Iron Throne.

As such, we will now turn our attention to the North. Lord Martell," he was no longer a prince for, as punishment for his House's defiance, Daeron had stripped them of their royal titles. He would allow them to remain as Dorne's foremost House, but none of the Dornish nobles could be trusted to be Lord Paramount of Dorne. He would put one of his allies as their leader instead.

"My king," the former prince stepped forward, expression still blank.

"You will donate a host of men from the Dornish army, who will march to the Winterlands with us to conquer the North. My Lord Commander will also inspect your supplies, and take anything he believes will be needed for us."

The Lord of Sunspear's face tightened, but he simply bowed and murmured an agreement. This particular Martell did not live up to his House's words of 'Unbowed, Unbent, Unbroken'.

He knew it was a risky strategy, and his soldiers and advisors had all protested the idea. But they needed to move quickly, and their own army was heavily depleted of men and supplies both. They needed the Dornish's resources.

Besides, they would have insurance.

"Fourteen heirs, including Lady Myriah Martell, will be sent to King's Landing under the guard of my cousin, Prince Aegon. Lord Lyonel Tyrell, Head of House Tyrell and Lord Paramount of the Reach, will remain behind in Sunspear to rule Dorne as Regent for me, until such time as I decide on a more appropriate candidate for the post," Daeron finished.

Outrage briefly crossed the expressions of the Dornish, but they did not protest. Daeron could see the fury and hatred flaring in the majorities' eyes however, the rest neutral at best, and he knew that Dorne was not yet secure. They had bent the knee, but only grudgingly. He would need to keep a close eye on them in the future, in case they decided to rebel against him.

* * *

_**Winterfell: 23rd, April 158 AC**_

_Cregan "The Old Wolf" Stark:_

"Dorne has bent the knee to the Young Dragon," King Cregan announced to his councillors.

They all exchanged grim looks at that. While they were all confident in their kingdom's defences, it said a great many things that Daeron Targaryen had managed to succeed where the Conqueror had failed, even bereft of the dragons his ancestors had relied on so heavily. The Winterlanders knew better than to dismiss a person on basis of their age. This boy king could be a serious threat, and it was the Council's responsibility to decide how to counter it.

The Winterlands' Council was different to the Small Council of the south. Instead of seven positions, there were ten main members, discounting Cregan himself:

First there was the Chancellor, who for as long as Cregan had reigned had been his closest friend Magnar Cerwyn. The man was getting on in age, and no longer fit to fight after a wound sustained fighting a giant some years' prior, but his mind was as keen as ever. He was the King's right-hand man, and acted as Regent if necessary. The Winterlands' equivalent to the Hand of the King, Cregan supposed.

Then there was the Advisor of War: the captain of the Warg Warriors, Magnara Sarra Greyjoy of House Stark, the king's beloved sister. She was accompanied by her niece and apprentice, Princess Alys. Her job was to oversee the kingdom's defences, both during war and peacetime.

Then there was the High Greenseer, Erena Ryder. She was one of the rare seers who was strong enough to rival a Stark or a crannogman in the greensight, despite not sharing blood from either of them for generations. She was responsible for giving them news as to the Gods' wills.

Next was the Advisor of Foreign Affairs: Magnar Rodrik Frost, the younger brother of the current Magnar Frost of Wolf's Den. His duty was to manage their trade and relations with other countries. He was a shrewd man, excellent at predicting the movements of their allies and enemies. He had spent some years travelling the south disguised as a merchant and later as Ambassador to the Free Cities before being recalled to join the King's Council, and as such had a better understanding of the politics of the south and Free Cities than most Winterlanders did.

Seated beside Magnar Frost was Magnara Asha Starstark, the current Admiral of the North's Western Fleet. She was glowering at her counterpart for the Eastern Fleet, and the head of her family's long-term rival, Magnar Bennard Seastark. The both of them were constantly at each other's throats, a trait shared by the rest of their families, but they worked well together to ensure the prosperity of the North. It tended to be better for them to work through assistants instead of directly, however.

Then there was the Cisteoir** (Treasurer)**: Magnar Edric Torrell, heir to his House. He was a young man, closer to Rickon's age than the king's, but that was a good thing really. Cregan's heir would need his own, young men when he ascended to the Weirwood Throne. House Torrell was a small and relatively insignificant one from the Sisters, but the man was a genius with coin. Since his appointment five years' past, he had managed to triple the Royal Treasury, a blessing given that Winter is Coming.

Then there was the Chief Justiciar: Magnara Lysanne Snowstark. She was a strong woman, unyielding and incorruptible. It was her responsibility to oversee all of the magistrates and sheriffs scattered throughout the kingdom, ensuring that they did their jobs according to the law. She was also in charge of organizing the Conclaves, and if it was deemed necessary to have a noble tried, she would be the one to decide if the case required the King's personal attention.

Next was the Advisor of Lore: Scholar Alivia Cassel of House Harlaw, from the Iron Islands and Sarra's goodaunt. She was the current Head of the Winter University, and the cleverest woman Cregan had ever met, though her social skills could often leave much to be desired (though her husband was the same, and if he did not care, who was anybody else to complain about it?). Her duty was to oversee the scholars, hospitals and schools spread throughout the kingdom, and use her vast array of knowledge to advise Cregan.

Then, lastly, there was Cregan's 'Principal Secretary', Magnara Aregelle Greenwood. A deceptively frail-looking, elderly cranngowoman with an equally-deceptive title. Looking at her, nobody not already aware of the truth of her position would suspect the fact that she had run the 'Ice Eyes', the Winterlands' intelligence network that spanned the entire continent of Westeros and the Free Cities since Cregan's uncle had been King. She worked closely with Sarra and the Greenseers to ensure the security of their kingdom.

They were the bulk of the Winterlands' Council, but not all of it. His wife, Lynara, and his eldest children, his heir Rickon, and his daughters Sara, Mariah and Raya all had general advisory positions on the council. His children with Lynara were all still too young to join in on such serious matters, the eldest not yet eight namedays.

"Magnara Greenwood," Cregan looked to the woman. "What else can you inform us of?"

"As expected, the Young Dragon is not waiting a moment," she replied, voice hoarse from age. "He announced his intention to march North within an hour of the Submission of Sunspear, as 'tis being called now. He ordered his men, and the Dornish, to all begin the trek as soon as possible. Foolishly, he has left Lord Tyrell in charge of Dorne, and stripped Prince Garin of his status. The Dornish smallfolk are furious, and likely they will rebel soon. He has hostages to keep the nobles in line, including Princess Myriah, the heiress to the Sunchair, but that won't stop the commons."

Cregan nodded. That was not a surprise.

"The boy is a foolish child, it seems to me," Rickon commented. "He cannot genuinely think that an army, divided and weakened from war as his currently is, could even breach the Moat?"

"This is where his strategy differs from most southrons," Greenwood replied, a hint of grudging respect in her aged voice. "He does not, it seems, intend to attack the Moat. He will go for the coasts instead, making use of the royal, Lannisters' and Redwynes' fleets, and blocking our trade routes. It's known how much we rely on trade with the Free Cities to feed our population, and he plans to block any aid sent to us from the Islands and the Sisters."

"I see," Cregan murmured, pursing his lips. He had to admit, it was sensible. No other invaders had ever tried such tactics. They always stupidly attacked the Moat, no matter many times they were easily repelled. Cregan had expected the Young Dragon to do the same. Had it not been for his Ice Eyes, he like as not would have ordered the coasts' defences reinforced, leaving them vulnerable to the dragons' attack.

"Admirals, what say you?"

"This is not the best news, a Shoilse," Admiral Seastark admitted, frowning. "Our fleet was badly damaged by the Thenn attack. You recall their attack on the Skane harbour? They managed to destroy seventeen ships, and steal another three. We have only managed to repair six so far. The east is under defended."

"That being said," Admiral Starstark spoke up. "The West remains at full strength, if over-stretched to compensate for the East's shortages. And our sailors are not the weaklings the south produces. We can fend 'em off, now that we know they are coming."

"We will fight them on the beaches, if needs be," his daughter Sarra declared stubbornly, her grey eyes filled with defiance. "No southron will ever make the Winterlands bend the knee!"

"Hear, hear!" the others bellowed in agreement, slapping the table or raising their fists, or however they could express themselves adequately.

Cregan smirked and nodded. How like his Aly her daughters were. Strong and fierce, just as she had shown herself to be.

Lynara stroked her swollen stomach, staying silent at his side. She was a good wife, a good queen. He cared for her, and was pleased with her ability to give him heirs to guard the realm from the dragons' greed. But he could admit, to himself if nobody else, that he longed for Aly still. His determined and headstrong second wife had been lost defending Hardhome from an attack when their youngest was three. Aly had gone down fighting, as she had lived. He never said so aloud, but his thirdborn, Alys, Aly's namesake and image, was his favourite child. Looking at her was like looking at Aly, alive again.

"Never, so long as the Starks live, will the Winterlands submit," Cregan agreed. "Now, Sister. Tell us of the Army's current state, that we might strategize for the coming invasion."

* * *

_**The Coast near Ramsgate: 12th December, 159 AC**_

_Princess Sarra Stark:_

Sarra had been in battles before. This was a familiar feeling. She could hear her heart pounding in her ears, the sounds of yelling and weapons clashing all distant, as if they were coming from the other end of a long tunnel. Sunset, her direwolf with a beautiful coat the colour of the golden sun as it was replaced by the silver moon, was at her side of course. The wolf's snout was bright red and dripping crimson drops as they cut their way through the southron knights.

It was so very foolish of them to continuously repeat the same mistakes over and over again, she thought distantly as she yanked her cutlass out of the throat of a southron man in a green tunic with a golden rose. A Tyrell, if she remembered her lessons on the south's houses correctly. A group of upstart stewards who had climbed to their position by betraying their liege lords. Oathbreakers. She felt no regret at his death.

The foolish knights kept hesitating whenever she or another woman went at them. Never mind that they had all quickly proven to be as deadly as any man. The misogynistic burners kept repeating the same mistake. But it was an asset for Sarra's side, so she could not find it within herself to be genuinely irritated that they weren't fighting her properly, despite the implied insult to her skills.

She briefly caught sight of her betrothed and long-time lover, the wilding Kayt of Clan Giantsbane, fighting a man in the red-and-blue of the Tullys. As expected, Kayt was winning easily.

Sarra spun away from her fallen opponent and looked for her target. She saw him quickly. Idiots, where was the sense in wearing tunics and waving banners to declare the position of your most vital commanders? She herself was dressed the same as the rest of the Warriors. All the same, it served its' purpose, even if it was southron stupidity at its finest.

"Targaryen!" She called, making her way to the Young Dragon, cutting down his guards easily. "I am Sarra Stark! You die today!"

His four white-cloaked guards formed a barrier between herself and the wingless dragon, but that was easily dealt with. She snapped a command at Sunset, who eagerly followed her orders. The russet-furred wolf growled and leapt on the Kingsguard, her teeth sinking into the first's with ease. Another of the Kingsguard tried to help, only to lose his own life within moments.

To the others' credit, they did not falter, shielding their charge and preparing to fight her. Evidently, these ones were not so willing to allow her gender to deceive them to her skills. Well, good. She was thirsty for a proper fight.

"Wait!" the Young Dragon called.

Sarra scowled as she prepared to cut down the first of the guards, ignoring him. What kind of incompetent idiot stopped in the middle of a battle, just on the word of their enemy?

"Wait, Princess. I have an offer for you!"

"The Starks will not submit!" Sarra snapped, feeling her eyes flash. "We have been here eight millennia, long before you and your statue gods! We will be here when your ashes are no longer even dust, your name lost to history! You dragons will never have our kingdom!"

"Fight me, in one-on-one combat," Daeron suggested, ignoring her words, much to her ire. "A fight to the death. Should you win, I will be dead and my army will retreat. Should you lose, your army bends the knee."

Sarra scoffed. "No," she snarled, sounding like the direwolf that she was. "But you die today, Targaryen! For the Winterlands!"

She charged his guards, Sunset running and blocking his escape route. His guards fought well, and bravely. She would give them that much. But they fell, unsurprisingly. The Kingsguard, however vaunted they were in the south, were nothing compared to a fighter trained by the Warg Warriors. They died quickly, leaving their king undefended and exposed.

He was Alys' age, with a confident demeanour and a warrior's physique. His silver hair was long, uncovered by a helmet, though he had the sense to wear armour of black and gold plate. It looked like it could protect him, even if it was stupidly heavy and uselessly ostentatious. A crown rested on his brow, one that Sarra knew had once belonged to the Conqueror.

She smirked at the sight of it. She would take it after slaying the boy-king, and it would be stored in the Winter Hall, as proof of the Starks' undefeatable nature. As undefeatable as Winter itself.

The king raised his sword, jaw taught, and settled into a fighting stance.

Sarra was tired and hungry, having been fighting for hours. She had some injuries, including a blow to the head. Her enemy was fresh, having been kept away from the bulk of the fighting by his guards. They were both skilled, and experienced in battle.

It was a very one-sided contest. If he were not attempting to overthrow her House's rule and steal her father's crown from him, Sarra might have felt guilty at what she was doing.

Her cutlass clashed against his sword. She noticed with a hint of contempt that his hilt was gold and shaped like a dragon with glinting ruby eyes. Why did southrons spend so much money and time on ornamentation? Useless, all of it.

They fought viciously with one another. Daeron Targaryen was an excellent warrior, Sarra would acknowledge it. But Sarra was better, and unconstrained by any preconceived notions of one gender being weaker than another. Although he was trying not to let her breasts affect him, he was not putting every possible effort into the fight, as he might have were he fighting Rickon.

The thought of Rickon hurt and enraged her, strengthening her determination to win. Her brother, the Crown Prince, a wonderful warrior, her dearest friend and steadfast confidant. Dead because of this child's greed for something that was not his. Now, Raya was heiress, and unable to go travelling the world as she had wanted to. Her brother's life, her sister's dreams, both destroyed by the greed of the man before her.

Her anger renewed her strength. She increased the power and speed of her strikes, the runes on her blade glowing as the Children's magic activated to help her.

"For Rickon!" she cried, and stabbed. His eyes widened as he felt the tip of her weapon touch his unprotected neck, and he choked out blood as she pierced his neck steadily. The crown toppled off his head as his corpse collapsed.

She heard screams and yells as the burners spotted their dead king. She ignored everything around her, however, leaning down to snatch up the crown.

'_Rickon, Brother,' _she thought, picturing his solemn visage, the smile he had worn on the births of his two daughters, Serena and Sansa._ 'You are avenged. I promise, your girls will be cared for, as the Princesses and treasures that they are.'_

"Sarra!" Kayt appeared at her side, spear soaked in blood. "Caithfimir imeacht! Anois! **(We need to leave! Now!)**"

Her words snapped Sarra out of her daze. "Cúlú! **(Retreat!)**" she called to the remnants of her group. "Cúlú!"

"Cúlú!" they agreed, turning to flee into the safety of the nearby trees. It was the correct decision. Should they be pursued, then their knowledge of the territory would be a strong advantage. The enraged southrons raced after them, and Sarra joined the group fighting them, allowing the others to escape with the injured.

Rickon was avenged, and the burners would no doubt decide to flee, now that their king was dead. Word had come shortly before the start of the battle that the host attempting to take their section of the Riverlands had officially surrendered, meaning their control of the upper half of the Riverlands was once again uncontested. The Dornish smallfolk were in rebellion, and the greenseers predicted Dornish sovereignty would be restored within the next few moons, now Daeron was dead. Prince Baelor was incapable of continuing the war or subduing the Dornish.

The Winterlands had won again.

Sarra smirked, and laughed gleefully as Sunset ripped the throat out of another knight, one in a tunic she did not recognize.

A good day for the Starks. If only her mother were still there to see it.


	13. Kings and Councils

**Disclaimer: I don't own ASoIaF/GoT. Thanks to everybody enjoying this, your reviews make my day. In two previous chapters I referred to Sara and Oberyn's daughter as 'Myriah' instead of 'Mariah', which I have since fixed, so sorry about that. **

**Also, when I'm writing the Winterlanders speaking, I sometimes write the grammar really badly. This is deliberate, to show their accents. Just something somebody mentioned in a PM that I wanted to clarify. I've also changed 'advisor of airgead' to cisteoir, meaning treasurer. I have no idea why I didn't call it that from the start, I just could not for the life of me think of the word.**

**I tend to refer to this Ned as Eddard. He's not the rigidly honourable Warden of North who dislikes violence and is kind of naïve from the books/show. This is a King of Winter, in a Viking-esque society almost constantly at war, and he has the attitude for it. Honour is not particularly important to these Northrons. Strong in body and strong in mind is what they expect, and that's what the Starks give them.**

**Finally, I just want to mention that the Northron/Riverlander border stretches from Ironman's Bay to Maidenpool after Cregan's attack. The 'Northron Riverlands' encompass the keeps of Raventree Hall, Stone Hendge, Harrenhal, and they also control the Isle of Faces. The Twins, Seaguard and Wendish Town are all under their control as well. This means the Freys, Mallisters, Brackens, Blackwoods, and any other houses within that area are all sworn to House Stark, and converted to the Old Gods to save their skins after being captured. Their members, naturally, will be OOC, and Genna Lannister married Clement Piper instead of Emmon Frey.**

**I hope everyone's looking forward to Christmas? I know I sure as hell can't wait for the hols to arrive!**

**Read, enjoy and review!**

**Chapter Twelve**

**Kings and Councils**

_**Winterfell: 9th March, 303 AC**_

_Ashara:_

"Sara," Ashara sighed. The Queen of Winter knew her children well. It only took a glance for her to realize that Sara had broken her promise. "What were you thinking?"

The Crown Princess winced and looked down, as if she were a young girl caught in some mischief with the others of the Wolf Pack again. "I just," she faltered and gave a desperate look to her mother. "I was just planning to introduce him to Mariah," she claimed. "And then we were arguing over my not telling him of her, and then. Well. One thing led to another." She looked down again.

"He is an Andal, my Wolf Star," Ashara pointed out tiredly. "And you are betrothed."

"I am not an idiot, Máthair," Sara grumbled. "I have never considered wedding him. I know that is foolishness. I just- He means to return and stay here, after putting the Crownless on the Iron Throne. To be near Mariah."

"_Only_ Mariah?" Ashara inquired, raising an eyebrow sceptically. She sighed and tilted her head in consideration. Above all things, she loved her children. There was a certain glint in Sara's eyes that she recognized. The young princess was in love. If there was a compromise, to allow her daughter to be happy and still keep the people content that no Andals would be poisoning the Weirwood Throne...

"It will never be taken well," she murmured. "However, if you still wed Edderion, and do not legitimize any children born of your, relationship, raising them as First Men, likely fostering them to certain houses to assure the people that the Viper did not have an undue effect on them... Perhaps. You have succeeded twice in the Trials, after all. Proven yourself against the wights and in state over the past few years. There is little justification to say you do not deserve the crown. Nobody is flawless, after all."

Sara looked at her hopefully. "Do you think so, Máthair?" she asked. She reminded Ashara of when she was a child of one-and-ten namedays with grey eyes too big for her fey-like face. _"Do you really think I could be a good Queen, Mama?"_ her child's voice echoed in her memory.

"I do," Ashara promised, just as she had the day Sara had gone for her Trials the first time. She let thoughts of her daughter and granddaughter steel her resolve. They deserved to be happy. She would do whatever necessary to see her children be happy. She didn't want Sara to become another Benjen the Bitter, lost in regrets and old sorrows to the point that she wasted away.

"I will see to it, my darling," she promised. "Focus on the war, and by the time 'tis over, nobody will even consider objecting. But you_ must_ wed Edderion. Understood? That is non-negotiable."

Sara nodded firmly. "I have no intention of doing otherwise." She paused, looking guilty. "If this happens, I cannot legitimize Mariah," she murmured. "And should I have any more babes with Oberyn than I could not do so for them either. Is that not selfish of me, Máthair? Should I not put them first?"

Ashara sighed and cupped Sara's cheek. "Sweetling," she began. "You will be the Queen of Winter. It is a heavy burden to bear, the crown. We are not the dragons, letting others rule in our name. We do so ourselves, and that is for the best. It is better for the people, better for our House.

But it also means feeling the grief and stress of the darker side of ruling. Sending soldiers off to what you know will be their deaths, making choices for the good of the many, even if it is not good for those you love.

The most important thing a ruler needs is someone with whom they can just be _them_, not the monarch. I am that for your father. Your grandfather's lover Jeor Seastark was it for your grandfather King Rickard.

If the Nathair Dearg** (Red Snake, all snakes are referred to the same way)** is it for you, my love, then so be it. I will not see you be destroyed trying to bear the weight of the crown without an anchor to keep your head above the water."

Sara looked solemn, reminding Ashara of her father as she nodded silently.

"Thank you, Máthair," she murmured. Ashara embraced her and kissed the top of her head.

"I gcónaí, a grá **(always, my love)**," she replied lovingly, in a way she would never consider doing in front of non-family.

There was a knock, and Old Nan stuck her head around the door. "My queen, my princess," she called, her voice cracked from age and body stooped. "The Council has been summoned, to begin preparations for war with the south."

"Thank you, Nan," Ashara replied, as she and Sara stood.

* * *

_Eddard:_

The king surveyed his council. They were all gathered to discuss the preparations for the approaching war. They would begin when the Crownless and his people arrived.

His Chancellor, Lord Manderly, was a shrewd and clever man beneath his guise of an over-weight and jovial fool. A good, trusted friend. The Manderly were originally a burner family from the Reach, but they had fled to the North centuries ago, and converted some generations past. They were some of the Starks' most loyal vassals, which said a great deal of them.

Then there was his Advisor for War, Ashara's brother and the Sword of Morning, Arthur Dayne. His goodbrother was a stern man. He wasn't a warg, but he was the best fighter and tactician that Eddard knew. Beside him, High Greenseer Howland Reed sat atop a specially-designed chair to compensate for his short height, expression grave and thoughtful. Howland had been a dear friend for many years, Eddard's most trusted councillor save for his wife.

Magnara Starstark and Magnar Seastark were both suffering from black eyes and bruised knuckles, having gotten into yet another fight with one another. Truly, it seemed that even in peace time, Eddard was busy dealing with the 'War of the Water Wolves', as Queen Lyanne, the Dragon Defier's daughter and successor had dubbed the feud. Still, the pair was more than capable of setting aside their differences to ensure the Winterlands' prosperity when necessary.

His Cisteoir, Magnar Torrhen Whitewolf, was whispering with Chief Justiciar Tytos Blackwood. His Advisor for Lore, Scholar Luwin was bent over some documents, shuffling them in search of something. Luwin was from the very edge of the border with the south, in fact his father was a southron. But he himself was a leal man, and Eddard trusted his judgement.

Finally, his Principal Secretary and spymaster, Magnar Yohn Royce, was also examining some reports from his spy ring. Or, as most who knew of it (which was a select few, mostly the royal family and the members themselves) the 'Ice Eyes'. Though, Eddard had always thought it ironic that it was dubbed after Brandon Ice-Eyes instead of its' creator, King Cregan.

Truly, the Old Wolf had been one of the greatest Winter Kings. His idea to plant families as spies in the various parts of the south and the Free Cities, with members groomed from birth to be moles loyal to the Starks, had been utterly ingenious. Ruthless, but ingenious. They had smallfolk, merchants and even a few minor nobles who had managed to defy southron expectations and climb the social ladder to infiltrate the court, all loyal to the Starks and scattered throughout the foreign kingdoms. Then, of course, there were the animal spies. Bird wargs, or rats, cats, even horses. No southron thought to be wary of what they said around a stray cat.

It was an intricate, large web, and all of it was overseen by Magnar Royce. Even Eddard himself didn't know the full extent of it, and that was a deliberate choice made to maintain the ring's integrity. Nobody knew more than three, at most four others' identities. Nobody save for Yohn himself, and he had sworn a solemn oath before the heart tree of Winterfell never to reveal any of his people's identities to anybody outside of House Stark.

Ashara sat beside him, waiting quietly. There was a brooding expression in her eyes, one that many would fail to pick up on. He, however, had known her since what felt like forever. They had been wed for two decades, and in love even longer. He knew her as well as he knew the back of his hand. Something was troubling her, something unrelated to the situation at hand.

He would inquire later, when there was time. Unfortunately, the needs of the realm had to come first, even before his family.

Robb and Sara were whispering to one another, Sara patting Taibhse's back and frowning. The rest of his children were too young to take part, though Arya would no doubt make her opinion on that known later.

At last, the Crownless Dragon arrived, his mother, guard and uncle in tow. Eddard again had to resist the urge to set Laochra on the Nathair Dearg when he spotted him. The damned man had seduced Ned's eldest daughter, damaged her standing in their people's eyes. Whilst the King of Winter could grudgingly acknowledge that his daughter was not one to be taken advantage of, the Winterlanders knew where to put the blame in such situations. Sara had been a maid of seven-and-ten, on her first trip outside of their borders and inexperienced with the world outside their kingdom. The whole purpose of sending her to Braavos had been for her to gain that needed experience. It was a tradition for their heirs to do so. Oberyn Martell, meanwhile, had been over twice Sara's age and already sired seven other daughters when they met. He was entirely at fault for the whole affair, in the father's opinion.

Eddard should never have given in to Ashara's pleas not to put a bounty on the man's head. For all Sara had promised repeatedly not to let the snake get under her skin again, Ned knew his daughter. She had the same look in her eye for Oberyn Martell as Ashara had always directed towards him. An entirely unacceptable look. And the king could see how the Dornishman glanced briefly at his daughter's chest, making Eddard clench his jaw. He would have to speak with Ashara about this. Hopefully, his intelligent wife would have some solution to the mess.

Of course, if all else failed then he could just give the man to the Gods. He would prefer to avoid that, though. It was a bad diplomatic strategy, to kill another monarch's uncle right after forming an alliance. Still, they did not actually need the alliance, it would simply be better for them. But they could manage if Eddard had to have the snake killed and it fell apart.

"Welcome, Aegon Targeryen," Eddard greeted him with a brisk nod. "Elia Targaryen. Oberyn Martell. Barristan Selmy. I introduce you to my council. My Chancellor, Magnar Wyman Manderly. This my queen's brother, Arthur Dayne, Sword of Morning. He the leader of my army. Then this Howland Reed, High Greenseer. Magnara Sybelle Starstark, in charge of the Western Fleet, and Magnar Brandon Seastark, of the Eastern Fleet. Torrhen Whitewolf is my Cisteoir. Master of Coin I think you say. Then my Chief Justiciar, Magnar Blackwood, and Advisor for Lore, Scholar Luwin. Then last, my Principal Secretary, Yohn Royce."

"It is an honour to meet you all," the dragon replied courteously, nodding respectfully to them. Eddard wondered where his sense came from. Obviously, it couldn't come from the incestuous side of his family. Yet the Dornish had decided to bend the knee and give up their freedom for nought more than a pretty face so far as the Winterlands could tell. That was hardly the act of a sensible person. Still, in general the Dornish were the most intelligent of the south, though that hardly said much. Perhaps Maron Martell had simply been a bad egg.

Time would tell if the Crownless could live up to his initial impressions, but Eddard had to admit it, if only mentally, that he almost liked the boy. If he stayed true to the appearance he had been giving off since arriving, then he could very well be a good king.

"Now, we begin discussing war preparations," Eddard declared briskly after the southrons had taken their seats. "We will give, for your cause, seven ships manned by thirty men each, twelve gryffins, and a host of four thousand, under command of my daughter. A reserve force will remain at the border, and replace any losses, to constantly maintain the level, and we will provide provisions for our men and yours if necessary. We also going to facilitate you contacting your supporters. We have list of those for your brother and those for you."

It was not much, true. But it was still more than he needed to give them, and he could see the relief in the burners' eyes at even receiving that much.

Yohn cleared his throat and showed them the parchment. "Dorne for you and Westerlands for Aenar, ar ndóigh **(of course)**. Also the Vale is for you. The Riverlands cannot fight for you, because Edmure Tully, his wife and children is being held in King's Landing. Same for Stormlands, as Tywin had the Baratheons taken into custody. They both either be neutral or forced to fight for lions. Then Reach is for you. Of Crownlands, most lords are being held hostage also. They likely be made to fight for the lions."

His young counterpart looked discouraged by the news. "What happened with the Baratheons, do you know?" he asked, expression pinched.

He must be close with at least one member of the House, Eddard deduced. Them being taken hostage was clearly personal to him, from the stricken look in his eyes. He did well at hiding his emotions, but he was no Winterlander, and Eddard could read the most miniscule changes in the lad's face.

Eddard spoke up. He didn't want the burners to realize Yohn's true role. It was obvious that they had spies in the south, but Eddard would not risk compromising the ring's integrity. "Traitor in the household allowed the Westermen entrance through a secret passage," he informed them. "Robert and Stannis Baratheon dead in the fighting, Lady Baratheon delivered a stillborn. Lord Renly and his eldest nephew injured, but alive. Everyone being kept under strict guard."

The dragon's eyes flared at the news of the Baratheons' tragedies. The Viper gripped his shoulder tightly, leaning in to mutter something in the boy's ear. Aegon's jaw was clenched, but he gave a curt nod in response to his uncle's words.

Eddard decided to move them along. "Worst case scenario, you have about one hundred forty-four thousand men, not counting the ships and gryffins. The gryffins are scouts and archers, not heavy combatants. The enemy can field, at most, one hundred forty thousand, many of whom would be fighting because their lords are being held hostage, and leaves many castles unprotected. This means you have the advantage."

"And the Winterlands' aid will come as a shock," Ser Barristan added thoughtfully. "They cannot possibly have guessed where you went, Your Grace, and that we formed an alliance would be even less unlikely. I know that Varys could never manage to plant permanent spies here, so the Lannisters cannot know of this. We have the advantage of numbers and surprise."

"Yes," Aegon agreed, rubbing at his chin. "But we must not become over-confident, Ser Barristan. You yourself told me that the moment you become convinced that you have won the battle is the moment you lose it. Tell me, King Eddard, of the skills of the troops you are loaning me so generously, and I will better explain the different strengths of my own men."

"As said," Eddard began, silently smirking at Ser Barristan's accidental reveal that the southrons couldn't keep their spies in his kingdom. He had known it was already, of course, as Yohn kept a careful eye on the Spider, but it was still good to hear. And he knew that the man had not meant to say such, because all of the southrons had winced subtly at the words.

"Gryffin riders are more scouts or archers than heavy combatants," he stated. "However, they are agile and adept at what they do. A gryffin rider is trained to fire up to four arrows at once whilst flying. The gryffins are able to fly faster than a horse's gallop, for several hours."

The snake prince let out a low whistle. He fell silent at Sara's sharp look, and Eddard ignored him, continuing the explanation. He would not give too much details, of course. Their alliance was too new, the memories of their ancient enmity too fresh, for that. But a gesture of goodwill was always a good thing.

"The Vice-Admiral of the Eastern Fleet, Wylis Manderly, the Chancellor's son, will be in command of the naval detachment," he went on, the burners listening intently.

* * *

_**The Red Keep: 19th March, 303 AC**_

_Tywin Lannister:_

Tywin pursed his lips tightly together, resisting the urge to slap his grandson firmly across the face. Why had the Seven punished him like this? He wondered bitterly to himself. What sin had he committed, to deserve a selfish fool for a daughter, a dwarf for a son and a second Mad King for a grandson? Was this to be his legacy, the legacy he had sought to build for years?

No, he would figure something out to prevent it. He would not allow House Lannister to be disgraced and reduced to nothing, as it had been during his weak father's reign. He was Hand of the King and Lord Protector of the Realm, the most powerful man alive. He would not allow his children and grandchildren's stupidity to hinder him from his goal of securing the power of House Lannister.

But Aenar most definitely made it difficult. Valaena and Aelyx were spoilt, but not cruel. There was still hope for them, but Tywin had none for Aenar.

Of course, that meant that he would have to be dealt with, before Tywin's legacy was forever stained. But that had to wait for later. At the moment, Tywin had to focus on the now.

"Explain yourself, Grandson," he ordered curtly. Aenar's expression tightened, but he obeyed. At least Tywin could still keep him reasonably leashed.

"They were boring me," Aenar said, sounding like a spoilt child whining over a broken toy. "Talking about things I do not care for. Some land thing, I did not care enough to listen properly. I was bored, and I am King. I can do as I wish. So, I ordered Ser Meryn to beat them. But they died, because they were so weak. Stupid peasants."

Tywin growled, resisting the urge to hit his grandson across the face. It was as if he had travelled back in time to the days of Aerys the Mad. It had been such a relief when Rhaegar had at last organized the coup to overthrow his insane and sadistic father. Granted, the Silver Prince had hemmed and hawed, using various excuses to put off actually going through with things until Aerys had stupidly triggered another war with the Winterlands. But after that, even Rhaegar had known and acknowledged that stopping Aerys could no longer be put off. And when he had taken Cersei as his second wife, even though she was Princess Consort in comparison to Elia Martell's Queen Consort, Tywin had tasted victory.

After all, everybody knew that the fragile-bodied Queen was unable to bear more heirs. The Crown Prince was a healthy lad, but Tywin had known that would not last forever. He had wanted to wait before getting rid of his step-grandson. Cersei had fussed about it, but Tywin was skilled at the Game. Had they killed Aegon too soon after the wedding or Aenar's birth, they would have been the clear suspects. They had needed to wait, for Cersei to birth a healthy boy and for the child to live long enough to be able to safely divert any suspicions. But Aenar's insanity had become evident early on, so Tywin had put it off again, wanting to wait until something could be done to remove his mad grandson. As much as he wanted his blood to sit on the Iron Throne, he was unwilling to suffer beneath yet another Mad King.

But Cersei, his idiot daughter, had ruined everything. And now Tywin had to clean up the mess.

"You will go to your rooms," he ordered his grandson, keeping his voice steely and unyielding. "I will come and see you later, after the council meeting."

"But-" Aenar began to object. Tywin cut him off with a harsh backhand to the face.

The pathetic boy's green eyes filled with tears and snivelled plaintively like an infant. He was weak in body, and even weaker in mind. How did Tywin share blood with him?

"You cannot do that!" he whined, his voice grating at Tywin's ears. "I am the King!"

"And I am your Regent, Lord Protector and Hand," Tywin responded coldly. "Now, do as I ordered and go to your room, or your cheek will not be the only thing hurting."

Aenar stalked off, grumbling. He was probably going to his mother to complain. Tywin hardly cared at this point, so long as he was out of the way and the Hand could get on with trying to repair the damage his daughter had so stupidly created.

He gave instructions to a guard on what to do to deal with his grandson having a pair of farmers beaten to death in the middle of the Great Hall, then stalked from his solar to the Small Council meeting chamber.

The Council were already waiting for him. Tywin surveyed them as he sat. Most of the council had needed to be replaced when he arrived at the capital. Some had died in the coup, whilst others had fled. Of the original council that had served King Rhaegar, only Varys and Pycelle remained.

The GrandMaester had abandoned his doddery persona to show his anxiety, and no wonder why.

Who would not be anxious, with their half-grown king going around ordering people beaten to death due to boredom? It was only a pair of peasants now, but everybody knew that it would only get worse. His paternal uncle was dead on his orders, his aunt and her family hostages, and that was just for starters.

Then there was the Master of Whispers. He had also tossed away his mask of obsequiousness to show nothing, maintaining a completely impenetrable mask.

All of the other councillors had been killed in the coup, including Stafford Lannister, Tywin's goodbrother and the Master of Coin for Rhaegar. He had died at the hands of the Viper during the Martell faction's flight.

Lord Petyr Baelish was the new Master of Coin. Tywin did not trust him, but the man was skilled, at the Game and with coin too. He had worked for Stafford, and his goodbrother had nothing but praises for the man's skills. Best of all, Baelish was one of those who looked out for number one, and number one alone. Tywin had learned what he wanted, and gained Littlefinger's 'loyalty' easily (as much as Baelish was loyal to anybody, at least). Once Aegon was found and dealt with, Catelyn Baratheon would become Catelyn Baelish, and her children would all be either killed for the boys, whilst the girls would be married to lords that Tywin could trust. Sansa Baratheon could marry one of his kinsmen, absorbing the Stormlands into House Lannister too.

His brother Kevan was the new Master of Laws. It was reassuring to have him there. His brother was the only person save his late wife, his beloved Joanna, that Tywin had ever been able to completely rely on. Genna was a devoted sibling, but if it came to a choice between House Lannister and her children, she would choose the sons she had borne for Lord Piper. Their other brothers had turned against him, abandoned him. Tywin hated them for that. He hated his father even more, for letting their House become so disgraced that Tywin had needed to go to such lengths to restore things that his brothers had become disgusted by him.

Jaime was there as well, as the new Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, much to Tywin's bitterness. His heir was a dwarf because his golden son had chosen to become a celibate knight instead of ruling the Rock as he was meant to. Or rather, a knight unable to wed. Tywin didn't know whom Jaime was bedding, but he was not celibate. That was obvious. Of course, it was rare that Kingsguards were. He almost hoped that his son would sire a bastard whom he could legitimize as his heir instead of Tyrion. Almost.

They were short on Whitecloaks, the Old Lion mused absently to himself, reminded of that fact by his son's uniform. Aenar had declared Selmy, Martell, Whent, the Blackfish and Tyrell all to be traitors, and then had raised several men to the position based on his mother's advice. But Sers Trant, Blount and Moore were not remotely Kingsguard material, too slow and unskilled. Cersei had not thought of skill when suggesting them, only of men she knew to be loyal to her. As of now, Jaime was the sole member who would actually be capable of properly defending the royal family, and there were still three places open. Tywin would have to ensure that they were taken by men with actual martial skills and something other than air between their ears.

Finally, Tywin glanced at the Master of Ships. Monford Velaryon's expression was inscrutable as he looked through some pages. The Velaryons were a powerful family that had always been fanatically loyal to the Targaryens. Which would they choose when it came to a choice between dragons? The answer was rather obvious, they would choose the true heir. However, with Monford, his pregnant wife and his beloved bastard half-brother Aurane Waters all being held in the capital, Tywin could hopefully keep them in line. Perhaps once the man's wife was delivered, Tywin would 'offer' to have the child be 'fostered' in Casterly Rock. That would secure their loyalty well. He would think more on it after the meeting.

"We shall begin," the Hand decreed after taking his seat. "First of all, Lord Varys. Any news in regards to the location of the traitors?"

He had no legitimate right to label Aegon and his helpers as traitors, but so long as his blood held the Iron Throne, Tywin would declare them as usurpers at the top of his lungs if needs be.

"Alas, no, my lord Hand," the Master of Whispers sighed heavily. He looked genuinely frustrated, as if he were exasperated by the continuing lack of news. Tywin couldn't tell if the man was sincerely trying to find Aegon and the others, or if he knew where they were and was helping them by keeping the location secret. Both options were grim. "None of my little birds can find a trace of them, I fear. It is almost as if they have disappeared off of the face of the earth."

"You are the Master of Whispers, Lord Varys," Tywin stated stonily. "You were ordered by your king to find the location of the rebels seeking to usurper his throne. Yet months have passed and you have no hint still? Explain yourself. I begin to wonder where your loyalty lies."

Varys looked unimpressed, meeting Tywin's gaze unflinchingly. "My loyalty lies with the king who sits upon the Iron Throne, my lord. I have no solid knowledge of Aegon and his group's location."

"Solid?" Tywin repeated, latching onto the phrasing straight away. "So you have a suspicion then?"

Varys pursed his lips and inclined his head. "I can tell you this, my lord," he stated finally. "There is only one place that I have never managed to plant any birds, and that is the Winterlands. Coincidentally, four years ago, Prince Oberyn Martell had a short affair with Crown Princess Lysara Stark after they met in Braavos."

Silence echoed throughout the chamber as everybody tried to comprehend this shocking revelation and the possible consequences of it.


	14. The Sun of Dorne

**Disclaimer: I don't own ASoIaF/GoT. Hey, I'm back! How was everyone's Christmas/New Years? Hope it was better than mine was (admitted to hospital for emergency surgery on the 22****nd****, can you believe it? I'm still wiped). So, whilst recovering from surgery I started playing around with another new story idea that has taken up all of my (limited) energy. The first chunk of it is quite similar to the books/show, so by now it's about 14/15 chapters in. Vote, post or not post? It's (I think) a stand-alone. **

**I know, I typically don't like to have more than 2 stories on at once, but Star of the North is almost done already, and I've got some writer's block when it comes to the sequel for ASoMS, while A Song of Vengeance (the new one) is pouring out onto my laptop. Tell me in your reviews what you think!**

**In canon, Oberyn's fifth daughter is named Elia, his first daughter after his sister's death and presumably named for her. In this, I have altered it to Eliana, as Elia is still alive. He still honoured her, but changed it slightly.**

**As usual, read, enjoy and review, sorry if you feel that this chapter's a bit short, like I said I'm recovering from surgery and it's very tiring.**

**Chapter Thirteen**

**The Sun of Dorne**

_**Sunspear: 23**__**rd**__**, March 303 AC**_

_Doran:_

Doran let out a heavy sigh as he gazed out over the ledge of the balcony down into the courtyard of Sunspear, missing the Water Gardens fiercely. Typically, he lived there for the sake of both his mental and physical health. But he knew that at the moment, even in the Water Gardens the place would be filled with tension and strain. He found great comfort in looking down at the courtyard of the Water Gardens, watching as children of all ages and stations laughed and played without regard for birth or the restrictive rules of society.

But at the moment, even the youngest children were able to realize that something was terribly wrong, and their normally cheerful attitudes were downcast and their comforting and innocent childish laughter almost non-existent.

Since word had come to Dorne of what had happened with the Lions' Coup, as it was now being called, everybody had been on edge. Doran had ordered his vassals to raise their banners and organize their levies. Given that his people in the Red Keep all swore that Aegon, Doran's siblings and several others had escaped, Doran had expected to be contacted by his nephew and ordered to raise his banners against the Lannisters. He had sealed off the Prince's Pass and made all of the necessary arrangements for war in anticipation of being contacted by his new King.

But it had been three moons now, and there was still no word from anybody on the location of King Aegon, or his family. Doran had received a letter from the so-called Queen Regent, his late goodbrother's concubine, and her son right after the coup, ordering him and his eldest child, his only daughter and heiress, to come to the capital to pledge the allegiance of Dorne to the self-declared King Aenar. Implicit but unstated in the summons was the fact that, whilst they might perhaps allow Doran to leave and return to his kingdom, at the very least they would be keeping Arianne as a hostage in the Red Keep. Naturally, he had not even bothered to reply.

He had been focusing all of his efforts on finding information of the location of his family, but his investigations had not yielded any fruit. Doran was fearful that they might have been sunk at sea, or that the beliefs of his spies that Aegon, Elia, Oberyn, Queen Margaery and the girls had managed to escape was wrong and they were all dead. Perhaps the lions had killed them during the take-over and then, to cover it up and avoid accusations of kinslaying that would blacken their already-destroyed reputations, faked their escape to try and make the people believe that the royals had abandoned them.

If that was so, then Doran would have vengeance. He would see Aenar and Cersei and the rest of the thrice-damned Lannisters all dead, and then crown Rhaenys as Queen. He knew that his niece was well, because he was in contact with the Vale and the Tyrells, discussing what to do with his allies. But he prayed desperately to the Seven that such measures would not be necessary and that Aegon and the others, especially Elia and Oberyn, would all show up, preferably safe and unharmed, in the Free Cities somewhere, or one of the Kingdoms that were firmly on Aegon's side, and had none of their Great House members being held hostage in the Red Keep by the lions.

He heard footsteps approaching, but kept his gaze fixed on the abandoned courtyard, lost in his brooding thoughts. He needed a plan to deal with all that was happening, but he didn't have enough information to make one. There were too many questions that had to be answered before he could settle on the best course of action to proceed with. Were Elia and Oberyn safe? Was Aegon still alive? And what of Margaery and her babe? The child, if it had survived everything that had happened, should have been born by now, or else was on the verge of it. Boy or girl? Healthy?

If Aegon could present a healthy son to the world on his reappearance, then it would go a long way towards proving him to be the legitimate king, favoured by the Gods. It was a sad fact of life that a healthy daughter would not be so significant outside of Dorne. Even a sickly boy would probably be seen as a better prospect for many people. And a dead child, either boy or girl but especially a boy, would be an utter disaster. Especially if Princess Valaena conceived a son soon. Doran's people had given word that she and Aenar were to wed on the first day of April. Doran pitied the girl in all honesty. She was a bit spoilt, but most highborn ladies of her age were. He had heard of some of Aenar's activities since he had been declared King. People were comparing him to Maegor the Cruel and the Mad King.

Clearly, Rhaegar and his lioness concubine had chosen his name badly. They ought to have named him for his grandfather instead of for the Targaryen who had fathered Daenys the Dreamer and Gaemon the Glorious and fled Valyria twelve years prior to the Doom. It was quite obvious that Aenar was Aerys reborn. Even if they were not doppelgangers of one another in appearance, they definitely had the same character, to a terrible degree.

If only Rhaegar had pulled his nose out of his books long enough to agree to have his second son packed off somewhere he couldn't threaten anybody, things would have been so much better for them all.

"Your Highness," a voice cut in, drawing his attention from his thoughts and back to the present. He twisted his head, spying a servant. He took a moment to shake away the cobwebs in his brain and recall the young man's name before responding.

"Nate," he greeted the man. "What can I do for you? Has a letter arrived?"

Nate, who was more commonly known as Feathers due to having worked with the birds in the ravenry since he was but a young child, bowed respectfully to the Ruling Prince. He was a tall young lad, handsome enough and of Stony Dornish origin. He had been an on and off lover of Arianne's for several years as well. One of many.

Doran loved his daughter dearly, and he genuinely believed that she had great potential as a Ruling Princess once she had matured some more, but her sexual activities worried him. She had never mothered a child despite all of her liaisons, which rivalled those of his brother in amounts, meaning that either she was incapable of producing a child or else she downing moon tea in the buckets, something that could also end up harming her ability to carry a child in the long term.

In addition to that, her lack of restraint had made it difficult for him to find a husband for her, as men suspected that she would cuckold him, and nobody wanted to risk having to raise their wife's bastard born of an affair. Doran did not dare contemplate the possibility of how people would react if she were to have a child whose legitimacy was questioned. Dorne was much laxer attitude-wise towards base born children than the rest of the Kingdoms, but they still would not allow a natural child to sit in the Sunchair.

Not to mention, it was a fact of life that whilst a man would be able to get away with sleeping around and being a ruler, a woman could not. Men were seen as being within their rights and satisfying a basic need, but women were considered whores. Doran did not like it, but it was the truth. Arianne would not be taken seriously by her peers outside of Dorne if she did not clean up her act soon enough.

He blamed himself really. He had spoilt and indulged his daughter, especially after Mellario left, and she had grown up wild and self-entitled as a result. Elia had warned him, but he had not listened, too guilty over the failure of his marriage, and now he was reaping the results.

"Yes, Your Highness," Nate confirmed in response to Doran's inquiry. He hesitated and then added. "It was strange, my prince. The raven that delivered it was bigger than typical for a bird, even a messenger raven that is bred for large deliveries, and it had the oddest red markings on its wings. I have never seen a raven like that before. In addition, it only stayed long enough to drop off the letter before flying off again. It didn't even stay long enough to have some water and nuts to refresh itself and replenish its strength with."

Feathers, who was a lover of all types of birds, looked very troubled by that fact. Doran was more interested in the strange description of the bird.

"Interesting," he mused, as he held out a hand, accepting the letter that Nate passed to him. "Thank you, Nate," he stated in a subtle dismissal. The boy picked up on the subtext.

"My prince," he repeated, giving another bow and twisting on his heel to return to the aviary and tend his beloved birds.

Doran waited until the boy was gone before opening the letter. The envelope had been sealed with a generic seal, no emblem.

A sprig of hope blossomed in his heart. Dare he believe that his missing kin had at last managed to contact him? He could feel Captain Hotah's gaze, fixed on his back as he read the letter, stunned by what its contents revealed. A small smirk touched on his lips. Only Oberyn would be so audacious and madly reckless enough as to bring the King of the Sev-, no the _Six_ Kingdoms, to the Winterlands of all places in order as to seek shelter and aid from their enemies.

_Winterfell, _ _The North, _ _The Winterlands,_

_10__th__ March, Three Hundred and Third Year After Conquest_

_To His Highness, the Ruling Prince of Dorne, Doran, Head of House Nymeros Martell,_

_Greetings and salutations my dearest elder brother. I beseech your forgiveness for taking so long to write to you and assure you of our safety. _

'_Our' refers to myself, your sister Elia, our brother, my son Aegon and his wife, who is quite literally just delivered of a miraculously healthy son yesterday. They have named him Daeron, and he is a large, strong boy the image of his father as a newborn. Thank the gods for our hosts, their intervention saved Margaery and my grandson both. Also with us are our nieces Obara, Nymeria and Tyene, and the Kingsguard knights: Ser Barristan Selmy and his Sworn Brothers, Ser Garlan Tyrell and Oswell Whent. We also have the crew members of Nymeria's Spear, who got us safely away from the capital the night of the coup. _

_We are all safe and unharmed, though Margaery is of course very weak and tired from her early labour. Thankfully, it does not appear as though she will suffer any ill-effects as a consequence, and she should be able to recover and bear more children in the future, though the healers all insist that Aegon wait a minimum of six moons before lying with her again, and even then he must wait longer should they (or whatever healer is in charge of her care at the time) say so. Aegon does not appear bothered by this. _

_He is most concerned for Margaery's welfare. He stayed with her throughout her battle with the birthing bed, and only left to present Prince Daeron to everybody, before promptly returning to her side. Margaery certainly appreciates it, the poor dear is very distressed by everything that has happened, though she is doing a most admirable job of keeping herself together. I confess, I am struggling to maintain my own composure, and not just because of how cold it is here, though the castle is shockingly warm given our location. But I am most proud of my son, who is coping wonderfully with everything that has happened._

_I pray to the Gods that you and the other members of our family in Dorne, as well as my dear daughter Rhaenys in the Vale, are all well and unharmed. _

_I confess, I am greatly worried for you, in spite of the Starks' assurances that you sealed the Pass before the Lannisters could move against Dorne as well._

_Yes, Brother, you read correctly, and my words are not written in the midst of fear-induced hysteria or any sort of hallucinations. We are currently enjoying guest right in Winterfell, under the protection of His Grace, Eddard Stark of the Winterlands, Twenty-Ninth of His Name, King__ of the First Men and Lord of the Winterlands, the Shield of the Realm, the Warden of the Wall, Head of House Stark and Defier of the Others__._

_It seems, Doran, that Oberyn has been keeping the more intimate details of his trip to Braavos several years ago from us. Whilst there, he encountered Crown Princess Lysara Stark, who was also visiting the Iron Bank on her own family's behalf. Well, you know what our little brother is like. The more unattainable that a woman is, the more he desires her to be in his bed. Still, I never thought that he would so foolish as to bed a princess of an enemy kingdom, and it seems that, as if taking her maidenhead were not enough, he also got a child on the girl! Granted, our youngest niece (her name is Mariah Snow) is an adorable and sweet child. Both Oberyn and I learned of her existence yesterday. Oberyn is already wrapped around her little finger. I should be very unsurprised if he were to move himself and our other nieces North to stay by her side. But I must count us all very lucky that King Eddard is such a reasonable man, otherwise we may have sailed to our doom, not our salvation._

_But, thanks to the grace of the gods, we did in fact come to our salvation. Aegon has formally renounced any claims to the Weirwood Throne, and it seems that Cersei and Aenar earned the enmity of the Winterlands before we even arrived. They decided to send a letter labelling King Eddard as an usurper and demanding that he come to King's Landing in order as to bend the knee and hand over Princess Lysara and his son, Prince Brandon, to be hostages. I must say, Doran. I have always known that Cersei highly overestimates her intelligence, but really. How utterly idiotic can a person be? _

_Naturally, the Northrons are all furious and indignant at the whole thing, and they have not only agreed to give us shelter but will be aiding us in the coming war against the Lannisters also._

_King Eddard has promised to loan us __seven ships manned by thirty men each, twelve gryffins, and a host of four thousand ground troops, under command of his daughter, the Crown Princess. A reserve force will remain at the Riverlands border, and men will be sent to replenish any losses that occur so as to constantly maintain the level of soldiers fighting. They have also agreed that they will provide all needed provisions for their own men, and, if it should become necessary, our own. Finally, they have also loaned us their ravens for contacting supporters so that Aegon can officially declare the Lannisters, Aenar and Cersei as traitors and usurpers, and order the Great Houses to call their banners against them._

_Given our kingdoms' history with one another, it is so much better than we could ever have dared to dream of. We hoped for shelter, but did not dare to request aid in going to war against the Lannisters. They volunteered it themselves._

_Enclosed is an official letter from Egg, ordering you to rally Dorne's forces for him against the Usurper. Copies have been sent to each of the Great Houses, though we are given to understand that the lions have neutralized the ability of the Riverlands and the Stormlands' to help us by taking hostages. _

_From our predictions, in the worst-case scenario we will have one hundred forty-four thousand men versus one hundred forty thousand. There is a small possibility of the Lannisters managing to hire sellswords to fight for them, but it is unlikely. They would be hard-pressed to find the money for it. Cersei spent so much of the royal treasury, and according to the Starks (frankly Brother, I find the amount of information they have on our realm disturbing. How many spies do they have, and how highly placed are they? They are our allies now, King Eddard and Egg are writing up a treaty of perpetual friendship, but all the same, they are still from another kingdom, and we have been allies not even a sennight.) she and Aenar are acting as if their funds are unlimited, in spite of the Small Council's best efforts to rein them in. And it seems that Casterly Rock's supposedly bottomless mines are not so limitless after all. In fact, they are dry. (This is information revealed by Aegon and Oberyn, who learned it through the Small Council, not from the Starks. But these Northrons are so good at keeping stoic, I cannot tell if they already knew or not.)_

_Even if, through some miracle, the Lannisters manage to scrape together enough coin to hire sellswords, their options are limited. _

_The Golden Company would never help the Iron Throne given their history with the Blackfyres, and the Company of the Rose is full of Winterlanders, who might have left their kingdom, but still maintain their loyalty to the Starks. Apparently for a lot of Winterlander Houses, serving for a certain period of time in the Company is a requirement for ascension to lordship, and many inheritance-less Winterlanders join the Company, either to see the world, support themselves and their families, or both. _

_That eliminates the two best possibilities for sellswords right there. Furthermore, King Eddard has put out word in the Free Cities that the Winterlands is giving aid to Aegon's cause, and only the truly desperate companies would agree to take up a contract that brings them into battle against the Ever-Victorious Army that has never lost a war in its eight millennia of existence. You might as well try and dose the sun as defeat the Winterlanders, I sometimes think. I am glad that Aegon has decided to make them friends instead of enemies. _

_Give my love, and that of our brother, to the rest of our family, Brother dearest. Oberyn has also added his own letter, also attached along with my son's declaration._

_All my love, _

_Your sister,_

_Elia Targaryen of House Nymeros Martell, Queen Mother of the Six Kingdoms._

Doran lifted his gaze from the letter at last and reached out to pull the bell that summoned a servant, tapping the page lightly on his knee. A small grin was playing on the edges of his lips as he waited for the servant to arrive whilst reading the call to arms and declaration of war that Aegon had sent.

A maid, an elderly woman by the name of Dyanna who had been a playmate of Doran's as a young lad in the Gardens, came quickly and curtsied, inquiring as to his needs.

"Have my children and niece Sarella all sent to my solar immediately," Doran instructed her. "And then spread the word: I have received word from my sister. King Aegon lives, as does Queen Margaery who is safely delivered of a healthy son, Prince Daeron, and my brother and nieces. The king has declared war on his usurpering younger half-brother.

It seems that the Second Dance of the Dragons is about to begin."


	15. The Fanatical Dragon

**Disclaimer: I don't own ASoIaF/GoT.**

**Here is Baelor's (short) reign in this 'verse. Read, enjoy and review!**

**Chapter Fourteen**

**The Reign of Fanatical Dragon**

_**The Red Keep: 15**__**th**__** January, 160 AC**_

_Baelor "The Blessed" Targaryen:_

"Baelor! Nephew!" the doors burst open and Baelor's uncle, Prince Viserys Targaryen, the Hand of the King, came flying in. His face was pale, his expression stricken in manner uncharacteristic of the prince.

Baelor rose from where he had been kneeling before the altar at the front of the royal family's private sept, turning to frown at the man. "Uncle, what is going on?" he inquired, keeping his voice soft. "We are in a sacred place. To come running into a sept yelling at the top of your lungs is practically heresy. The Seven-Who-Are-One-"

"Your Grace!" His uncle interrupted him, going down on one knee and bowing his head. Baelor fell quiet, dread welling within his breast. "The King is dead!" Viserys intoned solemnly, grief over the death of his elder brother's firstborn child leaking through to his otherwise steady voice.

Baelor let out a hiss, shaking his head in grief-stricken denial. He and Daeron were too different to have ever been close. Instead, Baelor and Rhaena had always been two peas in a pod, joined together by their love and devotion for the Seven, whilst Daena worshipped the ground that Daeron walked on, following him everywhere he went. But they were still brothers, and this shocking and unexpected announcement pained Baelor deeply.

"Long live King Baelor, First of His Name, Head of House Targaryen, King of the Rhoynar, the Andals and the First Men!" Viserys went on. "Defender of the Faith, Lord Protector of the Realm and Lord of the Seven Kingdoms! Hail Baelor, King of Westeros!"

Baelor exhaled heavily, lowering his head and turning back to the statues of the Seven to bow before them, specifically to the Stranger and the Warrior.

'_Oh, Great Seven-Who-Are-One,' _he prayed mentally. _'You, in the form of the Smith, hath crafted this path, and the Stranger has come to take the soul of my brave elder brother, who was so blessed by the favour of You in Your form of the Warrior. Let his soul rest in peace alongside our late parents and ancestors, serving out his justly-earned reward within the seven heavens. You have bestowed the fate of kingship on me, so that I might make peace with Dorne, and that I might bring the Light of the Seven to the heathens of the Winterlands. I shall not fail You, and if I do then may You strike me down and let the Stranger drag my soul to the seven hells. I will gladly accept the punishment, should I fail in carrying out Your will.'_

He sighed and made the sign of the Seven-Pointed Star before rising from his kneeling position to turn back to his uncle, who was continuing to wait patiently for him to finish his prayers.

"Uncle Viserys," Baelor began. "You have been Hand of the King for my brother all throughout his short reign, and before that you loyally served my father as his own Hand for many years. I now ask that you agree to continue in that position serving myself, and aiding me in the task of carrying out the will of the Seven by advising me with all of the wisdom that you have accumulated over the decades."

"I will gladly serve you to the very best of my abilities, Your Grace," Viserys vowed solemnly.

"Then rise, Prince Viserys Targaryen, Hand of the King," Baelor instructed the older dragon. "Walk with me to the solar, and tell me what happened. How did my brother die?"

Viserys sighed heavily, shoulders slumping. "I loved your brother dearly, do not mistake me my young king," he sighed. "But he was too ambitious. He tried to take on too much too soon. We needed to secure Dorne. Then, once we had the Dornish properly subdued, we could attack the Winterlands. As it is, he went straight from Dorne to the North, but his plan failed. The Northrons must have been pre-warned that we were coming. I have set Lord Vaelaros to discovering how."

Lord Vaelaros was the current Master of Whispers. He was from Volantis with a Lysene mother, and Viserys had met the man whilst he was still a 'guest' of the Lysene. Vaelaros had been visiting his maternal kin around the time that the Rogares were preparing to wed the prince to Lady Larra Rogare. The pair had become friends and stayed in contact with each other through the years. After being appointed Hand of the King for the late King Aegon III, Viserys had convinced his brother to employ the Volantene as his spymaster, as Vaelaros had a large network of contacts throughout the Free Cities and the Kingdoms, due to his widespread merchant business.

"I see," Baelor murmured. "An ambush?"

"The Northron navy harried our ships from the moment they reached the Bite," Viserys explained. "By the time our navy reached the coast of the Winterlands, their numbers had been cut in half. The Dornish began deserting or turning on our men immediately, further increasing the problems. Not to mention the fact that we severely underestimated the gravity and difficulties of a Northron winter. The army's camp was ambushed just after a blizzard, in the middle of the night. They never stood a chance."

"I see," Baelor stated. He closed his eyes, saying another prayer for the souls of those brave soldiers who had been so brutally slaughtered by the honourless, tree worshipping heretics. "Do you know whom it was that killed my brother? And what of the Kingsguard?"

Viserys grimaced, running a hand through his silver hair, which was threaded with grey. "The Kingsguard who went with your brother are all dead also," he admitted. "Only Sers Godric, Lyonel and Raymont remain. My son is a prisoner in Dorne, who have killed Lord Tyrell and his men, and Prince Garin has reclaimed his title, foreswearing his previous oaths of allegiance to us. As for the person who killed King Daeron," he hesitated before confessing, voice barely loud enough to be a whisper. "King Cregan's daughter, Princess Sarra."

Baelor paused in shock. They were at the end of the hallway that led to the king's solar, but he still stopped and turned to stare at Viserys in disbelief. "A _woman_?" he demanded incredulously. "A woman killed my brother? The Young Dragon was killed by a weak-bodied lady? How is it that such a thing could possibly have occurred?"

Viserys looked around anxiously, nodding with clear reluctance. "'Tis true, Your Grace," he insisted. "These Winterlands, they are savages. They let their women fight alongside their men. The princess was aided by her direwolf companion. All of the witnesses corroborate the matter."

Baelor shook his head in disbelief, stunned speechless. They began to walk again, as Baelor struggled to wrap his head around what he had been told. The heretics' power was strong, that was obvious. What could he do, to defeat the Starks where his predecessors had failed, and bring the Light of the Seven to the poor smallfolk of the North? They were suffering in their ignorance, and Baelor was certain that the Seven had made him king so that they might ensure that he saved the souls of the Winterlanders, and condemned the heretical Starks to the seven hells where they rightfully belonged.

The question then, was clear. How was he to succeed where his ancestors, even Aegon the Conqueror who had subdued five of the Seven Kingdoms, and his own elder brother Daeron, who had managed to defeat Dorne, had all failed?

It would not be an easy task, but Baelor would do all he could to see it through.

* * *

_**The Red Keep: 1**__**st**__** February, 160 AC**_

_Daena "The Defiant" Targaryen:_

Baelor was preparing himself for his walk of penitence when Daena came storming into his rooms without permission.

She paused, staring in contemptuous disbelief at her elder brother. What in the Gods' names was he doing this time? He was dressed in a robe made of sackcloth, his silver-gold hair undone and hanging loosely around his shoulders. His feet were bare, and he was tracing a Seven-Pointed Star on his forehead using what seemed to be ashes of all things. She was embarrassed even to look at him.

Gods, to think that _he_ of all people was the newest King of the Seven Kingdoms. Baelor was a failure and a stain on their house. He ought to have become a septon, as he clearly longed to be. It was physically painful for her to know that he was taking Daeron's place, when he had never been worthy to so much as lick the dirt off of their elder brother's boots, let alone sit on the Iron Throne. And worst of all, he was undoing everything the Young Dragon had made in his too-short reign. She would not stand for it.

"Baelor!" she barked at him, clenching her fists and glowering.

"Yes, Sister?" he asked with that infuriating serenity of his, turning to look at her. "Might I help you?"

"It is bad enough that you shame me by scorning our betrothal," she growled. "Bad enough that you desire Rhaena, Elaena and I to be confined to the keep, unwedded and never to become mothers, for the rest of our lives for Gods' knows what insane reason you have in your head-"

"I wish to protect your chastity and innocence," Baelor interrupted her. "And as for our betrothal, you know Sister, that wedding brother to sister is against the will of the Seven. We-"

"Are dragons!" she snapped back. "The Doctrine of Exception is written within the pages of the Seven-Pointed Star! But that is not why I am here, my _king_," she scoffed the title mockingly.

"And why are you here, Daena?" Baelor inquired, still calm. "I must be going soon."

"That!" She jabbed her finger at him. "_That_ is why I am here! How can you spit on our brother's memory thus? How can you just throw away everything he did and sacrificed to bring Dorne beneath our family's rule? Surely, Baelor, they lied to me when they said that you are going to bring the Dornish hostages back to Sunspear and seek _forgiveness_ of all things from them! You ought to be going at the head of an army, to crush those rebels. Send the heads of the hostages back in boxes, not the people themselves, without a scratch on them!"

Baelor shook his head, expression steady and calm. "They did not lie," he denied. "And I shall not go to war against the Dornish. No, I will walk to Dorne, to prove my contrition and regret over the war our brother raged. Then I will seek peace with the Prince. Finally, once that is done and I have returned, with our cousin Aemon in tow, I will turn my attention to dealing with the Winterlands."

She paused in her fury, looking at him through narrowed eyes. "What do you mean by that?" she pressed.

"The Starks must fall, Sister," Baelor informed her solemnly. "The Winterlands must be brought beneath the dragon banner, and shown the Light of the Seven, for the good of their souls. This is my task, given to me by the Gods themselves. When we have recovered our strength, we will strike at the Winterlands once again, but this time we shall _win_!"

Daena softened towards him a fraction. It angered her that he was doing this for the sake of the gods and not to avenge their dear brother's death, but either way the Starks would pay for killing Daeron. Granted, Baelor was nothing compared to Daeron, but there was hope. He had good advisors, at least.

She would speak with her uncle whilst Baelor was off on his ridiculous 'walk of repentance', her uncle who had never dismissed her on account of her sex. Perhaps because of his memories of his late mother Rhaenyra Targaryen, the only woman to sit on the Iron Throne in her own right. Uncle Viserys was clever, shrewd, and knowledgeable about war. Daena was intelligent and had studied the previous wars with the North in depth alongside Daeron as they had grown up together and she had helped him to plot out their family's future conquests. By working with one another, she and the Lord Hand could come up with a strategy to defeat the Starks and gain vengeance for Daeron's shameful death.

She would see Sarra Stark and her pet wolf pay for killing her brother and further humiliating him by stealing his crown, Daena swore it. No matter what she had to do, she _would_ see it happen.

"Then you ought to go now, my king," she replied sweetly. "The sooner you go, the sooner you return so that you might, complete your holy quest."

He smiled at her, evidently (and stupidly, but what else could she expect from Baelor) believing in her demeanour of fake sweetness, and agreed. They said goodbye, and as soon as he was gone Daena rushed to the library to search out any information she could find about their Northron enemies.

* * *

_**The Red Keep: 21**__**st**__** June, 160**_

_Aemon "The Dragonknight" Targaryen:_

Baelor was still weak and struggling to recover from the many snakebites he had received when Aemon brought him back to King's Landing from Dorne.

The young Dragonknight was solemn-faced as he carried his kingly cousin through the hallways and to the King's Bedchamber, where he lay the young ruler down and moved away, allowing GrandMaester Munkun and his assistants rush to attend to their monarch.

"What happened?" Viserys asked his son grimly.

Aemon felt his shoulders slump with shame and guilt, giving the Hand a pained look. "I begged him not to," he murmured. "I begged him to leave me and keep himself safe, but he refused." He explained what had happened, how he had been put in a cage, suspended above a nest filled with vipers by the Wyls. He told his father how Baelor had bravely, but foolishly, walked through the pit to get to him, receiving gods knew how many bites in the process.

"I got him to Blackhaven as quick as I could, and they treated him there," Aemon began to wrap up the story. "The maester saved his life, but he refused to remain and heal, insisting that he had to return, so I obeyed and organized a ship to carry us home. We then sailed back here, but the travel weakened him even further."

"The Seven-Who-Are-One protect His Grace," the High Septon declared solemnly. "They know of his devotion to the Faith, and they will protect him, so that he might use his position to further spread the Light of the Seven to all corners of the world."

It was obvious, at least to Aemon, what the subtext of the man's speech was. He sought to convince Baelor to relaunch the campaign against the Winterlands, to obliterate any traces of the Old Gods or the Drowned God worshipped by the Iron Islanders. Aemon had no doubt that the High Septon would succeed in convincing king to do so, in spite of the fact that they had barely managed to escape the Winterlanders' wrath with a third of Daeron's army still intact after the Young Dragon's death.

They would not manage that feat a second time. Not when King Cregan had lost his heir to Daeron and news had recently come that another of his children, Princess Mariah, had died when the ship she was on had sunk off the coast of the Three Sisters, whilst she was sailing past edge of the Vale's waters. There was no proof that it had been the result of an attack by the Valemen, but it was a strong possibility. If they attacked, the Starks would take it for a certainty, and they would be determined to gain vengeance for their lost prince and princess. Give the late princess had been the wife of the current Sealord of Braavos, the Braavosi might join the Winterlands in seeking vengeance for her.

Viserys was about to reply to the septon when the door to Baelor's chamber opened and Munkun stuck his head out, looking tired.

"My Lord Hand!" the GrandMaester called. "His Grace summons yourself and the High Septon to attend him immediately. He is weak, and requires rest, and so you must hasten to speak with him before he falls back asleep again."

Viserys gave a curt nod and they all hastened into the chamber. Aemon followed them.

Baelor looked better, he was relieved to see. Aemon and the maester at Blackhaven had done all that they could for him, but the Dragonknight had feared the worst when Baelor's fever had returned on their journey home. Thank the Gods for their mercy, the king's face was no longer flushed with sickness. Perhaps the Seven really were protecting him.

"Uncle," Baelor croaked, seeking out Viserys' eyes.

"Yes, Your Grace?" Aemon's father inquired gently, coming to his nephew's side.

Baelor cleared his throat. "I, King Baelor, First of My Name, Head of House Targaryen, King of the Rhoynar, the Andals and the First Men, Defender of the Faith, Lord Protector of the Realm and Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, do hereby grant leave to the Faith to revive the Faith Militant. Furthermore, I charge the Faith Militant with this most sacred of tasks." Now, he turned to look at the septon, who's eyes gleamed with satisfaction.

"Your Grace, whatever you desire, the Faith is at your service," the High Septon simpered in a sycophantic manner, bowing to the weak king.

"You are to bless the Stars and Swords with the favour of the Gods," Baelor charged him. "And then, you will send them forth to the Winterlands, to defeat the heretical Starks and bring the Light of the Seven to the poor smallfolk, who in their ignorance are made to worship the Starks' false tree gods."

"It shall be done, my king," the High Septon agreed, a fanatical smile spreading across his face.

Aemon cast a dismayed look at his father. Viserys' jaw was clenched, and he moved closer to the king's bedside.

"Your Grace-" he began, but it was too late. The king had fallen asleep again, and now they had no choice but to go through with his demands.

* * *

_**Winterfell: 1**__**st**__** July, 160 AC**_

_Cregan XXXV "The Old Wolf" Stark:_

"Father, allow me to deal with this," Alys pled, kneeling before her father and king. "Let me send the burners a message that they shall never forget, whilst my lady aunt and sister lead the defence of our kingdom."

Cregan studied Alys thoughtfully. News had just arrived that the Winterlands had failed to learn the lesson his people had sought to teach them. Not even a full year after the death of the Young Dragon, the Fanatical Dragon was sending his armed priests forth to the border to try and invade, apparently on a holy quest to spread their burner filth. It had been decided by the Winter Council that they would teach another lesson to the southrons, warn them that there was nowhere on the continent that they would be safe, should they continue to test the wolves' patience. The only question was, who should they send to be the teacher?

The king was reluctant to send his thirdborn into danger, yet all the same he had faith in her skills. He knew that coddling a child was foolishness incarnate, leaving them vulnerable to their enemies. Alys was long-past her first kill, a strong fighter. She was her mother's daughter, and Sara had chosen her as her apprentice and successor for a reason. At long last, the king nodded.

"So be it," he conceded. "Go forth, my daughter, to the capital of the Five Kingdoms. Show the Fanatic Dragon that the Wolves of Winterfell are not to be crossed lightly."

"I shall not fail, a Shoilse," Alys vowed, kissing his wolf's head torc-style ring before rising and rushing away to prepare after receiving his blessing.

"Aly, look after our girl," he prayed to his late second wife. "Great Gods of the Forest, River and Stone, protect her for me, please."

Later, he would go the godswood to preform another prayer. For now, that was all he could do, for he had things to do. Winter was coming, and the Swords and Stars were already marching for the Riverwall, the canal that Cregan had ordered be dug in order to mark the border between the two kingdoms. They would never be able to breech it, of course. It was heavily defended, as the most vulnerable point of the kingdom. But Cregan had lost two children in only a few moons. Raya, with Aly's eyes and fire, was never again to travel the world as she had dreamed of, as she was now heiress after being the only one of his current living children to pass all of the Weirwood Trials. Mariah, Aly's last child, was gone, as was Rickard. That they had reunited with their late mothers in Valhalla was no balm for his grief.

He wanted the dragons to pay for their deaths in blood, and he trusted Alys to see that action through for her siblings.

* * *

_**The Red Keep: 22**__**nd**__** October, 160 AC**_

_Alys Stark:_

It was absurdly easy to get into the Red Keep. Alys had sailed first to Braavos, where she had taken on the guise of a travelling noblewoman from Myr. From there, she and her entourage (made up of loyal Winterlanders who were apart of Magnara Greenwood's spy network and trained to be able to pose as being from a dozen different places) had managed to obtain invitations to the Fanatic's court.

The lack of women at the southron court was a bit of a surprise. She had known that the Fanatic showed his incest-induced lunacy through scorning women and locking his three sisters in what they were now calling "the Maidenvault", but she could not even spot a serving maid. Only men. But given the severe lack of ladies available, she was _un_surprised that nearly all of the men looked at her with lust and longing, and practically fell over themselves trying to get a chance to speak with her. Gods knew how long it had been since any of them had been with a woman.

_Almost _every man that is. The king was an exception. Baelor flushed deeply and avoided looking at her. She suppressed the urge to snort when he continuously looked to his burner advisor, the 'Arch Septon' or whatever they called the leader of their intolerant band of hypocrites, for instructions on how to deal with her. Had he any knowledge of women at all? He had three sisters, and a lady cousin, yet seemed hopelessly lost on how to speak with her. Alys bided her time, however, waiting patiently for her chance.

It came during a feast for the Maiden Goddess (or was it the Maiden _part_ of _the_ God? Alys could not quite understand it. Were there seven of them, or one split into seven aspects? She wasn't even sure if the burners themselves fully understood their own rhetoric.) on her third day at the Dragons' Court.

She smiled and leaned in towards the king. "Your Grace," she purred in her faked Myrish accent. "I have heard something that fascinates me. Is it true that you are spreading the True Faith to the Winterlands?" She felt ill referring to the burner faith as the 'True' one, but she knew that was how most followers of the Seven considered it so.

Baelor looked at her properly for once, his expression alight with passion. "Yes," he promised. "I am. I have revived the Faith Militant, and as we speak they battle with the heretics in the Riverlands to defeat the tree worshipping wolves. Then they will burn every last godswood to the ground, and raise septs in their places, and all traces of the false gods will be eradicated!"

Alys did not even realize she had decided to move until her dinner knife was already buried within the Fanatic's neck. His words had pierced her iron control and made her move without planning. He gripped at his throat, choking on his own blood, and the whitecloaks all surged towards her. She whipped out her daggers and her own men (who were seated close to her or else disguised as servants attending the high table) all leapt to their feet, engaging in a fierce battle. But though they were outnumbered by the southrons, none of them had been drinking and they had been expecting a fight, even if they hadn't known when it would happen, and as such they managed to hold their ground, battling towards their escape route.

The Great Hall's windows overlooked a cliff's edge, and a boat, already prepared to flee, was waiting below for them.

Alys fought her way to the windows, whistling sharply. Her direwolf, Alpen, came racing in from where she'd been hiding somewhere with a bloodstained snout. Men yelled in terror at the sight of the giant wolf and Alys laughed wildly at their fear, her wolf's blood flaring to heights unreachable by giants.

"A Bhanphrionsa **(Princess)**!" one of her men yelled to her. In the chaos of the fight, Alys could not identify the voice. "Caithfeamar imeacht! Anois!** (We must leave! Now!)**"

She gritted her teeth, but common sense overcame her bloodlust, and she darted the rest of the way to the window along with her men. She shattered it with her dagger, jumping up on the ledge. A whistle of air was her only forewarning, and she just barely managed to knock the sword that would have otherwise gone through her heart out of the way so it merely grazed her arm.

It was the Dragonknight. She grinned darkly at him as she prepared to jump out of the window, down onto the waiting boat, bobbing on the waves several thousand feet below.

"Greetings to the dragons from King Cregan!" she called to the southrons, letting out another wild laugh and jumping down, with Alpen and the remainders of her men swiftly diving after her.


	16. Reunions and Queenly Hopes

**Disclaimer: I don't own ASoIaF/GoT.**

**Okay, at this point I think we can safely say Sara has become her own person completely, so this is now Oberyn/OFC. Anyway, that's what it's under now.**

**Thanks to all my wonderful reviewers! Keeping reading, enjoying and reviewing!**

**Chapter Fifteen**

**Reunions and the Hope of a Hurting Queen**

_**The Vale: 2**__**nd**__** April, 303 AC**_

_Oberyn:_

Oberyn held onto Sara's waist for dear life, terrified of sliding off of the gryffin's back despite the strange saddle and harness contraption that he was strapped into to avoid that exact fate. Humans had not ever been meant to fly, and Oberyn was very much _not_ enjoying the experience.

Oh, he'd had the same boyhood fantasies of riding a dragon as any other child as a boy, pretending to be Aegon the Conqueror riding Balerion the Black Dread or his second dragon Morghul and running around the Water Gardens along with his friends.

But there was a huge difference between running around safely on the ground where humans were meant to be whilst flapping his arms like a bird, and sitting on a strange saddle with a belt to keep him attached to the gryffin's back, attempting to keep his legs in the right position to avoid hampering the creature's wings in spite of the cramps it gave him as the gryffin soared above even the clouds. He couldn't even see a smudge of green beneath him (not that he had dared to look down again properly after they had passed the tips of the mountains and entered the clouds). Above and around him was the light blue of a summer sky, and thick white clouds were below.

He felt more than a little ill with nerves at the position that he was in. Had the Gods, be they the Seven or the Gods of the Forest, River and Stone, wanted humans to be capable of flight, they'd have created them with wings. This was not an enjoyable experience at all, and Oberyn was desperate for it to be over with already. Though there were at least three more trips such as this ahead of him, something he was dreading and assumed was some sort of divine punishment for one his various sins.

His nephew apparently did not share his concerns. He was flying with a member of the 'Fighting Flock', what the Winterlands called their group of gryffin riding warriors, a slim young man by the name of Lieutenant Even Glover, and evidently having the time of his life. Oberyn had nearly had a heart attack the last time that he had turned his head to check on his nephew when he had seen him with his head thrown back and eyes closed as the air whooshed by and made his long silver locks fly behind him, his arms spread out to the sides as if he were about to embrace somebody. Thankfully, he had obeyed when Oberyn had yelled and gestured at him to stop least he fall to his death. The boy likely had not been able to hear Oberyn's elaborate swearing, but the prince's gestures had been easy enough for the king to interpret.

Oberyn had not been particularly reassured by Sara informing him with a (he _thought_, but it was so hard to tell with her) fondly mocking tone that all gryffin riders were trained to rescue anybody who fell, should the harness the person was wearing ever fail. How often did such things happen? He prayed to whichever gods would listen that it was merely a precaution. The Winterlanders had proved themselves extremely paranoid over the course of their time in the North, after all. Surely it did not happen often.

Thankfully, Oberyn's eldest daughter was not as insane as her cousin was. Whenever Oberyn glanced to the left to check on her, he saw Obara wearing a stoic look and holding tightly to the waist of her own companion on the gryffin that she was riding, a Free Folk woman (a woman of the Free Folk was _not _a lady, as Ygritte had pointedly told Ser Garlan with a slap, apparently highly insulted by the comparison. Given that Sara had always been incredibly scornful of 'those useless southron flowers without a speck of dust, let alone a brain, between their ears', Oberyn was unsurprised by the reaction. He had, in fact, found it rather amusing.) called Major Dalla, who was (save for Sara) the highest-ranking Winterlander in their little group. Sara was not a part of the Flock, but as Crown Princess, she had received training to a high degree of many different skills. Flying was one of them.

Although she had power in her own right, another part of her influence came from the fact that Dalla was the wife of Mance Rayder, chief of the Rayder Free Folk Clan, which made her the second in command of the Rayder Clan by default. Well, it was currently the Rayder Clan, but just because Mance was the current leader, did not mean that their son would inherit the title. Apparently, the Free Folk did not inherit their titles. Instead, they won them in battle or in contests. Rayder had defeated the other contestants in the trial to choose the clan's new leader after the previous one had died, and would hold the chieftainship until such time as he either was defeated by a challenger or died himself.

It was an interesting way of doing things, but thinking of some people who were utterly incompetent and yet held positions of power solely due to their birth (the Fat Flower came to mind immediately), Oberyn admitted that it was in many ways a sensible one.

He stiffened when Sara released one of her hands from the reigns and began making signs with her hands, communicating with the other two riders.

"We are just above the Mountains of the Moon," Sara called to him, her voice scarcely audible over the whooshing of the wind, even though she was likely yelling at the top of her lungs. "We shall begin getting lower, then fly straight into the Eyrie, landing on its roof most likely! Wherever we can set down!"

"How long?" he yelled back.

"A few hours at most," she replied. "You may wish to rest! You have not slept in over a day!"

"Sleep?" he repeated in disbelief. "In _this_ situation? I wish to live, not fall thousands of feet to my death, thank you very much Princess!"

She didn't respond, but he saw the way her shoulders shook with laughter, and even in the midst of fearing for his life and those of his companions should any of them fall, he could not stop the smile it caused to spread across his face from forming.

Gods, he really was pathetic. He was the Red Viper, Prince of Dorne and one of its' most (in)famous and acclaimed warriors. He had nine daughters, had raised eight of them himself, had helped run the kingdom for the best part of twenty years as a member of Rhaegar's Small Council. Yet even the sight of Sara laughing at him made something in his breast swell with pride and delight that he had managed to make her smile, even if it was at his expense.

They had lain together several more times since she had revealed Mariah's existence to him, and they were sharing a bed. Nobody had said anything to him, though he'd received more than a few exasperated looks from his family and companions, whilst the Winterlanders all seemed like they wanted to geld, mutilate and painfully murder him. But nobody had outright confronted him over the issue, and if Sara had spoken to anybody about it (whatever _it_ was) then she had not told him about it. He wasn't even really sure what they were doing with one another other than being lovers. Anytime he attempted to discuss it with her, she cut him off by coaxing him into more pleasurable activities than sorting out relationships or else simply changed the subject outright.

The rest of the journey passed in relative peace, and Oberyn felt no shame in the fact that he said a mental prayer of thanks to any listening deities that they had survived the journey intact.

Whilst Sara's brother Robb organized and led the troops being loaned to them by the Starks to the Riverwall along with Ser Barristan, Nym and Tyene, Sara, Oberyn, Aegon, Obara and Ser Oswell (who was at the back riding with a young lady named Captain Myriame Greystark and therefore out of Oberyn's ability to check on without risking slipping off. The man was a knight of the Kingsguard anyway, he'd be fine. Besides, Oberyn was far more concerned about his family than his nephew's guard.) were all flying to their confirmed allies so that Aegon could speak to them in person and then rendezvous with the Northron host. Although he had sent letters to all of the houses (even those he knew would stay loyal to the Lannisters for whatever reasons, be it power or hostage situations) commanding them to gather their levies, only Doran had been informed of their new alliance, as they would likely need to prove that the king was not a prisoner of the Starks, writing under duress.

Oberyn would give credit where credit was due: flight was far, far faster than riding a horse, or even sailing. At most, the entire trip, from the centre of the North to the Eyrie in the Vale, to Sunspear in Dorne, and then to Highgarden in the Reach and back to the Riverwall, would likely be less than a full moon, depending on how long they stayed at each place.

They had only left Winterfell early yesterday, yet they were now in sight of the Vale. It was astounding. Captain Greystark had told them that the flight from the Eyrie to Sunspear shouldn't be more than two or three days (with breaks for the dark hours because flying at night was apparently much too dangerous to risk, even for the most talented rider. It was almost guaranteed to be a death sentence for anyone foolish enough to try. Oberyn was willing to take their word for it) so long as the weather was alright and there were no unanticipated problems.

Oberyn wondered if dragons had flown as quickly as gryffins did, or if the larger size had made them slower.

His thoughts drifted from one topic to another over the course of the flight, until he realized that their surroundings had changed. Now, instead of being surrounded by blue and white with the only breaks in colour coming from glimpses of his companions, he could see mountains and the ground (when he risked a brief look down at it) was covered with green grass instead of white clouds.

The Eyrie was right in front of them, and they flew in, right over the heads of the guards, who were much too shocked to think of raising their bows.

Lord Elbert and Artys came running out with a dozen guards just as they landed, skidding to a stop when they laid eyes on Aegon.

"Your Grace!" Lord Elbert cried. "Thank the Gods! We had feared the worst, even after receiving the letter. But this- What are you doing with _them_?"

He pointed an accusing finger at the Northrons, who had gathered together beside their mounts. All of them were tense and stoic, with their hands near to, but not on, the hilts of their weapons. Oberyn suppressed the urge to grimace. Lord Elbert had lost his cousin Denys, his uncle Jon and several friends in the most recent war against the Winterlands. Due to the Vale's proximity to the Three Sisters and the mountain clans' alliance with the Starks, his people often got into clashes with them. Only the Riverlands and the Western fleet got into more skirmishes, the Riverlanders with their Northron counterparts at the Riverwall and the West with the Ironborn.

This could be a very tense meeting.

"Egg!" a woman's cry interrupted the King's attempt at responding. "Uncle Oberyn!"

"Oberyn! Aegon!" she was echoed by a man's voice. Both were familiar, and Oberyn felt some of his tension drain from him as his niece and uncle came sprinting out of the castle doors. He had hoped they were safe, had been assured that it was so by the Winterlanders (who's spy network knew a discomforting amount about the movements of the south), but he had still been afraid for them both.

"Rhae!" Aegon cried, equally relieved. He opened his arms just in time for his elder sister to throw herself into his embrace, the Princess and future Lady Paramount of the Vale weeping freely.

"I feared the worst," she sobbed. "Thank the Gods that you are safe! Where is Mother? How are Margaery and the babe? Our other cousins? We have been without word for moons, save for a single letter ordering my goodfather to call the banners! You must tell us all!"

"Indeed," Uncle Lewyn agreed, his own relief clear as he took them in, clapping a hand on Oswell, his former squire's shoulder. "It appears you have a long tale to tell us, and a very interesting one at that."

"Yes, you speak truly, Nuncle," Aegon confirmed, glancing at the silent and aloof-looking Northrons. "But first, Lord Arryn," he turned to the man, who was torn between relief at the evidence of his liege's safety and blatant suspicion at the presence of the Winterlanders. "Might we partake of guest right? I vow by the Seven, these people are our allies. Without them, myself, my wife and son would all be dead, not to mention my lady mother, my lord uncle, my cousins and our guards."

Looking as if he would prefer to throw himself out of the Moon Doors, Lord Elbert reluctantly gave in to the king's request, gesturing for some servants to bring forth the bread and salt.

Oberyn saw the Northrons relax the minute the bread touched their tongues, their hands abandoning their positions beside their weapons and the foursome stepping slightly away from their mounts, now that their safety was assured.

"Let us adjourn to my solar, my king," Lord Arryn suggested once they had all received the guest right. "I confess, I am eager to hear this story myself. And, as I failed to say so properly before, please allow me to express the Vale's relief at your survival. And you spoke of a son? What auspicious news, to hear that the realm has an heir! I trust that he and the Queen are well?"

"I thank you, my lord," Aegon answered. "Yes, thanks to the mercy of the Gods, my wife and son, whom we have named Daeron, are both very well, thank the Gods. Let us go to your solar, and I will reveal all."

* * *

_**Winterfell: 4th April, 303 AC**_

_Elia:_

Elia smiled softly as she kissed Margaery's cheek before leaving her gooddaughter in privacy so that the younger woman could nurse her son.

Originally, Margaery had planned to have a wetnurse attend to her babe's needs, instead of doing so herself. Elia herself had nursed both Rhaenys and Aegon but she knew that was unusual for a highborn lady, especially a queen. And even she had never changed one of her children, or winded them. The thought of doing so had never even occurred to her, something that now made her feel guilty as she observed the actions of the Northron mothers scattered around.

Lady Olenna had sneered at her when she had inquired as to how Margie intended to have the babe fed early on into her gooddaughter's pregnancy, contemptuous of the idea of her granddaughter spending time caring for her child when she could be 'performing her duties as a member of the royal family'. A.K.A: spreading Tyrell influence on her family's behalf. Olenna had proudly stated that she had been a very traditional mother, leaving the care of her son and daughters to wetnurses, septas and tutors when they were older.

Elia had bitten back a remark about how well her neglecting her children's care in favour of spreading her influence had worked out. Mace Tyrell was a bumbling fool under his mother's thumb whom everyone made a mockery of, Janna Fossoway was an empty-headed fool whose greatest joy in life was gossiping about clothes (not even people. Just clothes and fashion). Mina Redwyne was the only one of the trio that had any brain at all, and she was too busy trying to keep her imbecilic husband and gambling sons from sending her marital house spiralling into debt to do anything noteworthy.

But though Margie had at first planned to follow her grandmother's lead (though she had confessed to Elia and her mother Alerie that she had always planned to spend more time with her children than Olenna had ever done, and to be very involved in their education also) their circumstances had prevented that. The looks the young queen had received from the Northrons when she had asked about a wetnurse had made even the ever-composed Margaery Targaryen of House Tyrell flush a deep red.

Apparently, in the Winterlands, the only times that a mother did not feed her babe herself was when she was (a) ill or dead and thus incapable of it or (b) If her milk had dried up early or had never come. They believed that nursing was the most important part of developing a mother-child bond, and that, should another do so in their place, it would disrupt the creation of that sacred bond. They also claimed it was worse for the child's health, as the mother's milk was made specifically by the Gods for that child, and using milk for another babe would increase the chances of the babe's health being damaged or weak. The thought of somebody willingly refusing to feed their own babe was shocking and awful to them. In addition, all mothers, be they high or lowborn, were expected to care for their infant's basic needs themselves, again to aid the mother-child bond.

Margaery had not brought it up again after that, simply asking to be shown the proper way to do such instead. Elia thought she was actually happy about it, because there was a certain sparkle in her eye when she announced that she needed to feed her child that said so. (Though she was not so positive about changing the child. Elia had done so in Margie's place a few times, and it was one thing she was pleased queens were not expected to do in the south. Who knew that such a tiny form could produce so much waste?)

But Margaery preferred to care for her son's needs in private for the sake of her modesty, and so she was typically left alone when she was feeding her child.

Elia left the chambers and began making her way back to the nursery, hoping to be allowed to see her niece. She was allowed around Mariah, who was a lovely child, but had to be supervised. That stung, but she had already learned that it was not due to fears of her physically harming the child. What concerned them was that she would start telling the girl about the Seven and converting her. Elia was willing to put her (admittedly not very strong. None of her mother's children were very religious, in fact) religious opinions to the side in exchange for getting to spend time with her Northron niece. The little 'Snow Snake' as Oberyn had taken to calling his youngest daughter affectionately, was a bright and sweet child, and spending time with her distracted Elia from her worries over her family.

She was lost in thought as she wandered in the direction of the Royal Wing where the Starks lived, wondering how long it would take Egg and Oberyn to reach the Eyrie. As such, she failed to notice Arthur Dayne rounding the corner until they knocked into one another.

"Apologies, Mother Queen," he grunted, grabbing her arms to prevent her from falling. Realizing what he had called her, he quickly correct himself. "Apologies, Queen Mother."

She smiled and waved it off, hoping her cheeks had not turned pink. It seemed that a taste for Northrons ran in the Martell line, because her younger brother was not the only one of their group who had developed an attraction to a Winterlander.

She had been surprised that Paladin Dayne, in spite of being leader of the Winterlander Army, had not gone with his apprentice to help run it. However, Queen Ashara had told them that it was very important for Robb to gain respect and recognition in battle as Arthur's future replacement, and the same for Crown Princess Lysara. Were Arthur to go with them, it would cast doubts on whether it had been him or them who was really running the show. It made sense, and Elia had found herself spending time with the man. He was a charming man, and she liked him very much.

Arthur Dayne was "the Sword of Morning", a title passed down through his family to the most worthy and greatest warriors born to the House. There was magic involved somehow, though Elia had not been given any details. Those were all kept close to the chest of House Dayne. The Queen of the Winterlands _had_, however, been gracious enough to explain the same outline that everyone else knew about it.

The sword, Dawn, would allow anybody of Dayne blood to touch it, but to wield it required a certain type of character. Without that character, the sword would be too heavy to lift, let alone wield. There could be centuries without a Sword of Morning (Queen Ashara, who had become a friend to both Elia and Margie, had informed them that the longest period recorded without a Dayne being worthy of Dawn was two-hundred and fifty-three years) or it could pass from one generation to the next. It all depended on the people available and what they were like. There were also cases recorded of a Sword losing his ability to wield Dawn after turning corrupt. It was always a sure sign that something was wrong with the warrior if they lost the ability to use Dawn.

Dayne was not just the Sword of Morning, but head of the Order of the Paladins. From what Elia had gathered, King Eyron IX Stark had formed the Order in response to the knights of the Andals. They were, in essence, the Winterlands' version of knights. However, they took their vows in godswoods instead of in septs, and all wore the same uniform of a navy tunic and black breeches, with a symbol called a triquetra sewn on their left breast, just above their hearts. The symbol apparently represented the three stages of life: birth, adulthood and death, and was very important for the First Men. Unlike with the knights of the south, you did not need to be highborn to attain the rank. But you did have to have seen combat (real combat, not just mock battle like in a tourney) and you could not bribe your way to the rank if you did not have the necessary skills to do reach it. (At least in theory. Ashara had acknowledged that their systems were not flawless, just as close to it as they could manage. They had many 'checks and balances', she called it).

Paladin Dayne had silver hair and purple eyes, similar to Rhaegar, but his was more natural, with the silver closer to gold than white like the Targaryens and hints of dark blue in his purple gaze. She preferred it in all honesty. Rhaegar's silver locks and violet eyes had been almost ethereal, making him look almost inhuman, as if he really were a living god the way the Doctrine of Exception was sometimes interpreted. They had unnerved Elia a great deal up for the first part of her marriage, until she had managed to get used to them. The colour of Arthur's eyes was, softer, for lack of a better description. His skin was tanned from many hours spent outside training or fighting, his hands calloused and his muscles strong and sure. Another contrast to Rhaegar, who had been constantly pale with soft hands due to the amount of time he spent studying in the library.

Most different of all, Elia felt like a woman when Arthur Dayne looked at her, instead of just Rhaegar's sickly and scorned first wife, and an attractive woman at that. It was a feeling that she was beginning to feel addicted to.

"I was looking for you," Arthur told her in his accented voice. His skill with Andaii was improving. He had asked her to give him lessons after hearing her and Oberyn practicing with Mariah, and it was a good distraction from her worry over Rhaenys (and now Aegon too, since he was no longer within her line of sight), so she had agreed. She tried not to dwell on just how much she was enjoying the time she was spending with him.

It was shameful of her, really. Her husband had only been dead a few months, and yet here she was, already turning her eyes to another man.

Yet Rhaegar had never really acted as a husband to her. Oh, he had done his conjugal duty but only until Aegon's birth. After that, he had stopped visiting her bed, and she didn't bother trying to kid herself that it was due to his concern for her health if she were to become with child a third time. It had, and still did, hurt a great deal, the way that Rhaegar had taken another woman as a second wife. Elia might have been the one with the title of 'Queen', she might have been assured that her children would be before Cersei's in the succession, but that was all a cold comfort to the wounds his actions had left on her heart. She had loved him once, before he had shamed her, broken her heart and then lost himself in the library.

Surely, in light of that, it was not a shameful thing for her to seek out another for comfort? She had never been unfaithful to Rhaegar when he lived, after all. She was a widow now, and her life was hers to do what she willed with.

"Oh?" she tried to hide how pleased the fact that he had been seeking her out made her feel from her voice. "Might I help you with something, Paladin Dayne?"

"Arthur, I ask you call me Arthur," he murmured. She dared to hope that the look in his eye was one of tenderness.

"Arthur," she repeated, smiling brightly at him. "But if I am to call you by your name, then you must call me by mine, yes?"

He smiled back at her, his almost indigo eyes deepening to a shade nearly blue enough to be described as navy, something she liked due to the way that it further decreased his resemblance to her late husband.

"Elia," he said. She felt her smile widen. "I have gained permission," he chose his words with clear care, evidently recalling their lessons. "To take you to visit the Great Library. Will you go with me?"

"I would be delighted to come with you to see the Great Library," she agreed instantly and eagerly.

In the south, women were not generally encouraged to read, though her homeland was far more liberal than the rest of the Six Kingdoms. But Elia had spent many days abed recovering from one illness or another as a child, unable to play with the other children or even attend lessons. And so, she had read book after book, losing herself in them to distract herself from the hours of loneliness when her brother or friends were unable to spend time with her. Learning of the Great Library, an entire keep maintained by certain Scholars graduated from the University and their apprentices, had delighted her. It was the largest collection of books in the world, and the ultimate goal of the Library was to obtain a copy of every book written.

She had asked to see it, and been disappointed to learn that, due to fear of the books being damaged, permission from the Chief Librarian and an escort were required. Arthur had promised he would see about obtaining such for her.

"Will we go now?" he extended an arm with a pleased expression. She took it willingly, happy to follow him everywhere and anywhere so long as he continued to look at her like that.

"You said that the Scholars have a sort of motto?" she recalled as he began guiding her in the opposite direction of her chambers. "What is it again?"

"In your language?" he replied. "I believe that it would be 'the only true wisdom is in knowing you know nothing'."

Elia blinked. "Who said that?" she asked, expecting to hear about yet another famous Stark. The rulers of the Winterlands definitely had great reason to be proud of their heritage, at any rate.

She was surprised, therefore, when he answered: "Scholar Myranda Manderly, the first Chief Scholar of the University."

A woman as not only the head of such an important organization, but the first head? Elia could only dream of such freedom. Even in Dorne, the Andal expectation of a woman's submission to the men of her life was strong.

She wondered what her life would have been like, raised in a culture like the Winterlands where spouses could obtain a dissolution of their marriage, a colscaradh** (divorce) **if their spouse hit them or had an affair, whether it was a husband having an affair or harming his spouse (same sex couples could wed here too!) or even the other way around, with a woman raising a hand to her husband. Women and children were not considered property of their fathers or husbands in this place. And to cap it off, custody of any children and financial compensation were awarded to the victim in such scenarios. Queen Ashara had stunned all of their group silent when she had claimed that the souths laws made marriage akin to slavery.

The worst part was that she was right, and when she pointed out the similarities, they all realized it. It made Elia's heart ache to picture what her life might have been like, had she not been bound by the laws of the south.

She could have left Rhaegar after he shamed her, left him and raised her children in Dorne, away from Cersei's poison, her husband's indifference and the cruelty of the capital. She could have met another man and been loved and respected, instead of humiliated and pitied.

Glancing at Arthur out of the corner of her eye, Elia wondered if there was still a chance for her to have a loving relationship, or if she was a dreamy fool.

She prayed for the former, and the slight smile that played on his lips whenever he looked at her gave her hope for it too.


	17. The Unfortunate Luck of the Old Lion

**Disclaimer: I don't own ASoIaF/GoT.**

**Glad everyone's enjoying this still! Thanks to my reviewers, as always. This is the lead up to a fight scene (or an attempt at one, at any rate) in the next chapter, and as such is a bit short for me.**

**Also, a few people have asked about the giants. Truth is, I feel like if the giants get involved, they'd be a bit of a Deus Ex Machina, so I have them all just assigned to the Wall, focused on fighting any rogue wights. I hate it when the protagonists have all the power and the antagonists are dumb with nothing to give a fight with. (Admittedly, this North is quite OP, but I genuinely don't see how they wouldn't make any progress, especially military-wise. Martin's North makes no sense to me. All rulers try to improve their country and ruling tactics, for reasons either selfish or selfless, and the Starks have been ruling for a minimum of eight millennia, possibly ten. Of course they have it down to an artform now). So yeah, no giants (that's also why I avoid having dragons in my stories- they give too much power to their riders.)**

**Finally,**_** bold italics **_**mean they are speaking in the Old Tongue**

**Read, enjoy and review!**

**Chapter Sixteen**

**The Unfortunate Luck of the Old Lion**

_**The Red Keep: 15**__**th**__** April, 303 AC**_

_Tywin:_

_Casterly Rock, _

_The Westerlands,_

_10__th__ April, 303 AC_

_To His Lordship Tywin Lannister, Lord Paramount of the Westerlands, Warden of the West, Head of House Lannister, Hand of the King, Lord Regent and Protector of the Realm for His Grace King Aenar, First of His Name and King of the Seven Kingdoms._

_Greetings and salutations, my lord and cousin. I pray that you are in a better situation than we are down here at the Rock. Dark wings bring dark news, as you well know. The fears that you warned us of in your letter have come true. It seems that Aegon has indeed made an alliance with the Winterlands. The North-Western fleet, under the command of whom I suspect to be the Starstarks from what I could see of the flags that the ships were flying, attacked Lannisport several nights ago, under the cover of darkness. It was a brutal assault, my lord. It cannot be called a battle in reality, only a massacre. _

_Our garrison was taken by surprise, and was already severely undermanned due to so many men and boys having been called up as levies for the army. They ransacked the town. Oddly enough, no non-combatant was harmed by the barbarians, but they managed to destroy many of the buildings, and the defenders were all slaughtered, nearly to a man. Those who survived (by the skin of their teeth), are badly injured and I cannot say whether they will survive. The town maester has little hope for them, especially as the army took most of his supplies with them when they left. The Lannister fleet, of course, has already sailed for King's Landing. As you know, this means neither the town nor our home neither had, nor do we have now, any naval defences, and we remain vulnerable to another attack by sea. _

_We have been forced to barricade ourselves in the keep along with some others such as the local maester, a few survivors of the attack, and some others, and we are now under siege. The barbarians have surrounded us both on land and at sea, so we are incapable of either escaping or gaining assistance. I must be frank with you, my lord. We were completely unprepared for this situation. I cannot say how long we will be able to hold out against them. We do not have sufficient supplies or men to do so._

_The only good news that I can give you is that the army had already marched under the command of Ser Daven when the attack came. They should be well on their way by now, as Ser Daven stated to me that it was his intention to march double-time with the men, in order to reach you as quickly as he could. That was several days past, the morning before the Northrons attacked, meaning they escaped the slaughter. He will be collecting more levies from the villages and keeps that he passes on the way to you._

_Please send aid and/or advice on what to do as soon as you can._

_May the Seven shield and guide you,_

_Ser Damion Lannister, Castellan of Casterly Rock_

"Damn it!" Tywin bellowed, flinging the letter at the wall and cursing. This was the confirmation he had been seeking since the council meeting back in March, when Varys had first hinted at the possibility of the alliance. King Aegon and his group had indeed found refuge in the North, and even worse, the North was _helping_ them.

It was hard to believe, but Tywin could see a few ways for it to have come about. If Aegon had forsworn his claims to the Weirwood Throne and had managed to negotiate a decent-enough deal with the Northron King then maybe. Perhaps he had offered his unborn heir for the young Princess Serena, or something similar. A future daughter for Prince Brandon, mayhaps. There were many possible agreements that could have been made, in theory at the least.

The details of _how_ were not what really mattered, however. The _results_ of the agreement were the problem. What was he going to do? The situation was a grim one indeed for his House.

Tywin had a mad boy king on the Iron Throne, his control was reliant on almost entirely on the hostages from the various Houses that he had (and with Aenar's insanity, there was a large chance that he might start losing those hostages soon enough), his idiot of a daughter was trying to make decisions she could not possibly understand with her short-sightedness, and the Winterlanders were invading again.

Tywin shuddered. The Winterlands were a horror to fight. For all their heresy and barbaric ways, he would acknowledge that they had their own strict code of honour. They never, _ever_, harmed an innocent. Unless you had a weapon in hand during a battle, they would leave you be. When they occupied a town, they never stole from the residents or hurt them. Tywin had in fact seen and heard stories from his men of them hang their own soldiers if they dared to break those rules.

But the Winterlanders were brutal and merciless towards their enemies. And those beasts that they had! They said that the Winterlanders had magic still, that they were able to control animals with their minds, and Tywin believed it. You could train an animal to act in concert with you, but only so much. The bonds between those barbarians and their beasts were terrible and unnatural.

They supposedly had giants as well, but Tywin had never seen one. He prayed that he would not in the future, either. How was he going to do this? The chances of holding the throne had always been slim, but now? Now it was as good as lost. Even worse, his legacy, his life's work and the thing that mattered the most to him, would be tarnished.

And all because of his idiot daughter's impetuousness and arrogance. He had actually started to hate Cersei more than his dwarf son. He snarled again and hit the wall, consumed by rage. If only Joanna had lived, he thought bitterly to himself. If only she had survived, and been able to have guided Cersei into becoming a proper lady, made her understand that it was her duty to increase Lannister power by mixing their bloodline with that of the Targaryens, not by ruling in her own right. In order to maintain power, two things were really needed: the lord inspired fear, too keep those below them in line, whilst the lady was responsible for inspiring loyalty through being kind and gracious. Joanna had been superb at that task. Genna, who had taken over after her death, was good but not exceptional at it. His rule had been more stable, his twin children more sensible, when Joanna was still alive to keep everything running smoothly. But then the blasted Imp had killed his lovely wife as he was being born, and then Cersei had come to the utterly idiotic conclusion that she was as capable as a man, and that she was meant to be his rightful heir.

Never mind that she couldn't even sort through simple equations of cause and effect, and thought herself invincible because of her Houses. It was not her gender that made Tywin so sure his daughter was not suited to being a ruler in her own right, but rather her obvious stupidity. She had no understanding of the truth of power. _Tywin_ knew power, and he also knew that there were limits even to what he could do. If he went too far, the smallfolk would rise against his House, and they would be severely outnumbered. Quantity almost always beat quality, after all.

There was a knock at the door, making him scowl even harder for a moment before he forced himself to hide his rage and, after picking up the letter and taking his place behind his desk, called out a curt "Enter!"

A moment later, the door opened to reveal Varys. Tywin felt his already tense jaw lock tighter. He didn't trust the Spider. Varys worked for the realm. Whomever he believed best to keep the Kingdoms safe, Varys would be loyal to. That fact, by default, meant that he was not loyal to Tywin's grandson, because Aenar was a fool and a sadistic madboy, and very much not what was best for the kingdoms.

Tywin was loathe to sully his hands with his own blood (otherwise he'd have killed the Imp years ago, though the dwarf was the only one of his children who had any sense of politics. Tywin loved Jaime and was proud of him, but he had quickly realized that his eldest son was a warrior, not a politician. That could have been dealt with, though, if only his son and heir had not decided to enter the damned Kingsguard of all things.). But despite that, Tywin still had far too grim memories of Aerys' reign to willingly allow another Mad King to remain on the Iron Throne. As soon as he was able to make the necessary arrangements, Aenar would die mysteriously or suddenly (or perhaps he could pin the blame for the assassination on Aegon. Accusations of kinslaying might turn things in his favour). Then Aelyx would be put on the Throne as Aenar's heir, and things would be far better.

Aelyx was young enough to be mouldable still, and unlike his elder brother had never shown any signs of insanity. He was a soft boy, but he could be fixed. Tywin would simply have to make sure to keep Cersei's influence away from him.

"Ah, Lord Tywin," Varys simpered in greeting, bowing. "Please do forgive my intrusion. I am sure that you are occupied with the current situation in the West, however I have some news for you."

"And what news is that, Lord Varys?" Tywin replied curtly, glaring impatiently at the eunuch. He was unsurprised that Varys had already learned of the attack on Lannisport and that his ancestral home was under siege by the Winterlanders, yet it still bothered him. Whom amongst his House's retainers was a 'little bird', as the Master of Whispers called them? And, just as importantly, what other things were they telling the man?

"Well, it seems that King Aegon-"

"The Usurper!" Tywin interrupted the spymaster immediately. Of course, everybody knew that, by all the laws of Gods and Men, Aegon was the rightful and legitimate ruler of Westeros. But Tywin was stuck on his path, and he had to act as though it was Aenar who was the true king, and his elder half-brother the would-be despot.

"My apologies," Varys replied silkily. "_The Usurper_, Aegon Targaryen, has been spotted by my birds in the Eyrie, Sunspear, and Highgarden, speaking to the Lords of those castles, over the course of the past moon, along with his uncle, Ser Oswell, Prince Oberyn's eldest daughter and several others. He recently left the Reach, and is apparently returning to re-join his army. Meanwhile, the Lords Arryn have marched from the Vale with their own troops. They left the Eyrie in the control of Princess Rhaenys, who had the Bloody Gate sealed again as soon as her lord husband and goodfather left. The Dornish army is also on the move, seemingly under the command of Lord Yronwood, and it is likely that the Reach will leave as soon as they have finished their arrangements also. How soon that will be, I regret to say I am uncertain at the moment."

"How could he possibly have been able to get to each of those kingdoms in such a short amount of time?" Tywin demanded furiously. "And why did you not hear and alert me of it before now?"

Varys' expression maintained its' subservient expression but Tywin could sense the mockery behind his impenetrable gaze. The Spider had no doubt kept the information back for as long as possible, allowing him to play both sides by discreetly aiding Aegon through giving incomplete or late information and yet still doing enough to allow him to be able to claim that he was loyal to Aenar, in the unlikely scenario that they were able to hold the throne. If only Tywin could replace him, but he was not a fool (unlike his children). There was nobody else in Westeros capable of doing what Varys could. Certainly nobody who would be loyal to his House. Even with divided loyalties, Tywin still desperately needed the Spider's help, otherwise the cause was hopeless.

In truth, Tywin already knew that the cause was hopeless. But he was still grimly determined to fight to the bitter end for the sake of preserving his legacy. He would not let everything he had worked for be destroyed by his children's idiocy. He would _not._

"Unfortunately, my lord Hand, things are not well in Westeros at this time," Varys said with false (or perhaps this particular emotion was not faked) sorrow. "And my little birds are struggling to get their messages to me without the ravens being shot down. I received the letters only a little while ago, and came straight to inform you."

Tywin suppressed a scoff of contemptuous disbelief at that outright lie, as Varys continued spinning his silken web.

"As for how King Aegon- apologies again,_ the Usurper,_ is managing to travel so quickly, he is flying."

"He's hatched a dragon?" Tywin demanded in panic, leaping to idiotic conclusions due to his tiredness and worry. Varys' eyes flashed with amusement as he shook his head whilst speaking to him in a soothing tone. "No, no, Your Lordship, not so," he cooed. "The Winterlanders are flying him and his companions around the continent on a few of their gryffins. King Aegon has no dragons to my knowledge."

"I see," Tywin replied curtly, trying to regain his dignity after the foolish outburst. "Is there anything else?"

Varys shook his head silently, and Tywin sniffed again.

"Very well," he said briskly. "You may go."

The Spider left with another bow, leaving Tywin to grimly contemplate the state of things. For the first time in his life, he was at a loss as to how he could proceed, for every possibility he looked at seemed to end with the worst case scenario.

His House, his sacred legacy, destroyed and in ruins. All because of Cersei's foolishness. He snarled and threw his goblet at the wall, where it fell to the ground, the wine spilling out over the floor.

The red liquid looked disturbingly like blood.

* * *

_**The Riverwall Garrison: 24**__**th**__** May, 303 AC**_

_Capt. Kyra Whitewolf:_

Kyra Whitewolf knew that she was not a particularly important person in the grand scheme of things. She was only distantly related to Lord Torrhen, her head of House. He was her third cousin twice removed, or something similar enough to that. But despite the distant relationship, he had still taken her in when she was orphaned during a Shivers epidemic at the age of five namedays, probably saving her life a dozen times over with that one kind act. Because of his sponsorship, she had been sent to foster as a part of the Wolf Pack at Winterfell (though she had not been a part of the Princess' inner circle, as Kyra was some years her elder. They got along well though, and Kyra had faith and trust in the princess, despite some of her,_ questionable_, decisions.). Later on, after her fosterage had completed, Kyra had been able to join the Fighting Flock, where she had climbed her way to the coveted rank of captain by the age of twenty and six.

She had no recollection of the last war with the burners, but she had been raised right. She knew that the Andals were not to be trusted, that they had sought thousands of times to eliminate the Gods of the Forest, River and Stone and to steal the Weirwood Throne from the Starks. Yet not only had the royal family to whom she was sworn to serve decided to _aid_ the Crownless Dragon of all people, but the greenseers themselves had _supported_ the decision! It seemed like madness to her, though Kyra could acknowledge that there was no doubt a great deal going on behind the scenes that a lowly scouting archer such as herself would not be told of.

It was still hard to wrap her mind around the thought of burners being allies instead of enemies, yet she knew that her place was to obey and carry out the wills of her lieges and the Gods, not to question them.

That didn't mean she would let her guard down, though. For all they knew, the southrons were preforming some elaborate trick, and just waiting for their chance to kill the Starks and steal the Weirwood Throne. Though if they believed that the Northrons would simply kneel and accept such things, then they were even more foolish than she had thought. She was musing over the situation as she groomed her beloved gryffin, Boreas, named for the harsh and cutting northron wind that was so very dangerous to anybody unfortunate enough to get caught in it, when Princess Lysara, who had apparently developed a relationship to the burner Dornish prince of all things, came striding into the stables where they housed the gryffins. There was a bitemark on her neck.

Kyra blamed the stress of being heir to the Weirwood Throne, a mother, and a warrior for her princess' lapse in mental capacity. Lysara was the heiress to the Throne, yes, but she was still a young woman, and anybody would struggle juggling all of those essential and important roles, especially without somebody to lean on. At least a foolish relationship was the worst of it. There were records and tales of far worse occurring, such as Brandon the Burner stupidly destroying the Northron fleet built by his father, Brandon the Shipwright, in a fit of grief at the disappearance of his father on a voyage when the Burner was four-and-ten.

And despite what many feared, those who had grown as part of Lysara's Wolf Pack knew her too well to think that she would be easily manipulated into changing their ways to be more southron. Even by her lover and the father of her daughter. Anyway, she had passed the Trials twice, so nobody had any legitimate grounds to object to her ascending to the Weirwood Throne on the death of King Eddard (and Kyra prayed that would be a long time away in the future. The king was a good, strong warrior with a shrewd mind. He would surely go down in history along with the greats of his ancestors, like the Hungry Wolf or Queen Kyra the Sister She-Wolf, who had ended the thousand-year long War Across the Water and permanently conquered the Sisters.). The Gods themselves were said to intervene in the Trials (though the details were kept secret from everyone, even the Starks themselves.). Lysara had twice succeeded in the Trials and had led the army to victory against the most recent wight uprising. She was the future queen, and nothing would change that. Kyra would stand by her princess, even if she disapproved of the lover Lysara had chosen.

"_**We have received word,"**_ the princess announced, not bothering to waste time with pointless greetings and expressions of obeisance the way the southrons did._** "That the Westron army is currently at Golden Tooth. When they arrive at Pinkmaiden, we shall be there to greet them."**_

They all grinned bloodthirsty grins at that. Northrons were born and bred fighters. Fighting was a part of their everyday lives from their births. They fought the land they lived on, they fought against the ravages brought by Winter and the animals that roamed their lands. They fought the burners to the south and they fought the wildings and wights to the north. One did not survive in the Winterlands if they were not strong in either mind or body, or, preferably, both. Eventually, most people tended to start craving the rush of battle. If they didn't, they weren't going to last much longer.

"_**Captain Whitewolf,"**_ the princess turned to her.

"_**Yes, my princess?"**_ Kyra stepped forward.

Princess Lysara smiled at her, a shark-like smile that showed her fangs off. Her direwolf Taibhse padded in a circle, tail sweeping from side to side.

"_**You will take Boreas," **_she instructed her._** "And fly to where the Westron army is camped. Find out everything you can, then return and report."**_

Kyra smirked in anticipation.

"_**Try not to raise any suspicion," **_the princess added. _**"But if necessary... Well, the important part of your task is that you return alive to complete it. Do whatever needed to ensure that occurs."**_

Kyra bowed. _**"I will not fail you, my princess,"**_ she vowed.

"_**None of my people have ever failed me, or my House,"**_ Lysara answered without batting an eyelid.

None of them could (or tried to) stop themselves from straightening up in pride at that.


	18. The Higher You Rise

**Disclaimer: I don't own ASoIaF/GoT. Okay, I couldn't get the battle to work, and I tried for days to get it down, so the battle's off-screen. Sorry. The amount of men the West are capable of fielding comes from A Wiki of Ice and Fire. Finally, the Winterlanders use the completion of the Wall as their calendar, so 303 AC is 8791 After Wall (obviously we don't have an exact date for its' completion so that's it.**

**Chapter Seventeen**

**The Higher You Rise...**

_**The Riverwall Garrison: 25**__**th**__**May, 303 AC**_

_Oberyn:_

Oberyn twirled the spear he had been given in one hand as they waited. It was made of ironwood, and had a slightly different weight to the Dornish spears he was used to ussing, but it was close enough that he was confident it would not affect his skills.

The Northron soldiers were gathered into a dozen columns, with a shield wall at the front, waiting quietly and patiently for their enemies to advance. Their discipline was admirable, but then, this was an army made up of trained and blooded warriors, not the smallfolk conscripts used by the southron armies. Oberyn himself stood just beside the front of the line, alongside Sara, who was perched on top of her direwolf (which was a frankly intimidating and extremely attractive sight. All the Northrons were wearing rather formfitting clothes that showed a wonderfully scandalous amount of skin). Aegon and Obara were on his other side, much to his dismay. For all he knew that they were both extremely capable warriors, he loathed his eldest daughter and nephew being in danger.

He was not particularly fond of Sara putting herself at risk either, but he was not about to say so. Despite what his siblings thought, he did in fact have_ some _sense of self-preservation, and he guessed that if he ever dared to breathe a word implying that she might be better off away from the battlefield, he would find himself with a dagger buried in his stomach.

According to the scout, a Northron woman by the name of Kyra of House Whitewolf who had the hardened air of a veteran in spite of her being only a few years older than Sara (whom, admittedly, was also a veteran of many battles), the West's army was about twenty-eight thousand strong by her count. The numbers made sense at any rate, as the West could field about fifty thousand men (if they depleted their castles of any defences and recruited every greenboy and old man as levies). The Starks' spies had informed them that the Old Lion had taken around ten thousand men to secure the capital after his daughter's coup, and those men combined with another two thousand that he had 'donated' to the City Watch after his daughter's marriage to Rhaegar (an act that much of the Small Council had opposed but Rhaegar had allowed in the name of keeping the peace with his goodfather, and had eventually led to Cersei's take-over being possible) meant that there was about twelve thousand Westermen in the capital. Then they would have needed to leave a minimum force of ten thousand behind to defend their own keeps and lands, leaving twenty-eight thousand to march east to the Crownlands so that they could reinforce the capital.

Their own host, meanwhile, was currently made up of the troops loaned by the North. Although King Eddard had only sanctioned the loan of four thousand soldiers to follow them to the capital, Sara had agreed to have the garrison of the Riverwall (one of their strongest guarded, with thirteen thousand men and women lining it) aid them in this particular battle until the Valemen could arrive at last. Due to that, they would have fourteen thousand soldiers on the field today, with three thousand of the garrison being kept behind in reserve. Of those troops, five hundred were wargs.

Oberyn's knowledge of numbers said that fourteen thousand would never manage to beat a host of almost thirty thousand. Oberyn's knowledge of and experience with the skills and fighting tactics of the Northrons said that there would be nobody left of the Lannisters' army by the time the Winterlanders (who had been disturbingly gleeful about 'sending the fucking burners to rot in their precious seven hells') were through with them. In truth, the five hundred wargs alone would likely be able to defeat the Westermen. Oberyn still had nightmares about the war two decades past. The sight of the giant animals ripping his men apart had imprinted itself on the backs of his eyelashes. He was very relieved that he was on their side this time.

"The enemy approaches, my princess!" somebody called. Sara had instructed them to use Andaii for the sake of the southrons with them, though the group had begun picking up bits of the Old Tongue over their time with the Northrons.

"Ready yourselves!" Sara called back. "Archers, knock arrows!"

They were tucked out of sight on a ridge, looking down over their enemies. The Westermen were marching into view. They had no idea that they were about to be ambushed.

Aegon had originally been going to send them a request for parley before fighting, and the Winterlanders had looked at him as if he were madder than Aerys. In truth, Oberyn had been rather disappointed by his nephew's naïve suggestion as well. He had thought that he'd taught Aegon better than that.

"Why would you do something like that?" Sara had demanded incredulously. "Offer parley_ after_ we have defeated them. Do not be a fool and take away our advantage of surprise."

Oberyn and Ser Oswell had both agreed, and that had been that.

The archers, who were all hovering on their gryffins, knocked their arrows.

"Draw!" Robb yelled. The archers pulled back. "Aim! Fire!"

On the final order, the archers loosed a rain of death on the unsuspecting Westermen.

The enemy's rows were broken and scattered by the surprise attack, and the commanders' attempts to rally their men failed with another series of arrows being sent at them.

"Charge!" Sara cried. Drummers began beating their instruments. It was a fascinating technique, apparently invented by Prince Matthos the Musical Wolf, allowing orders to be communicated via different rhythms that the soldiers were all trained to recognize, whilst at the same time confusing the enemy and sparing the commanders the loss of their voices from bellowing orders halfway across the field over the sounds of weapons clashing. Oberyn himself wouldn't be able to distinguish one beat from the other if his life depended on it, but the Northrons had been doing so for years, and they reacted on instinct to the slightest change in beat.

They charged down the ridge to the shocked Westermen, and more than a few terrified greenboys turned tail and fled as if demons from the deepest of the seven hells were nipping at their heels.

Oberyn himself thundered down on his borrowed steed. He quickly found himself in the middle of the melee, separated from his daughter and nephew but still able to see where Sara was. She had dismounted from her canine companion and was in the middle of slashing and hacking any Westerman unfortunate enough to cross her path into a dozen pieces while Taibhse rampaged through the battlefield, tearing a bloody swathe through the Lannister men.

In other circumstances, he would have been entranced by the sight of Sara, and the way she made fighting seem as elegant and graceful as a dance. But as it was, he was currently fighting a deadly battle, and thoughts of how beautiful and deadly his Winterlander lover was, as well as concern for both her, his daughter and his nephew/king all had to be put to the side so that he could focus on staying alive.

* * *

_**King's Landing: 4th June, 303 AC**_

_Ser Daven Lannister:_

Ser Daven Lannister, cousin to the legendary Lord Tywin Lannister, had never before had to retreat from a battle, yet he had fled the battle at the Riverwall. Of the twenty-eight thousand levies he'd had at the start of the battle, a bit less than half remained to him. Many of the raw recruits had fled in terror of the Winterlanders, whilst most of those who had remained to fight had been killed. He didn't know how he would ever be able to show his face again, with his reputation so stained. Well, if his head of House decided to kill him, he wouldn't need to worry about that.

At least he had managed to rally his disorganized and wounded forces enough to retreat, and they had been allowed to leave. And they were definitely _allowed_ to flee, because they had not been chased and the barbarians had practically made way for them to escape towards the Crownlands, whilst blocking any other possible escape routes, including the one leading back towards the Westerlands.

It had taken some time for Daven to understand, but he had come to a realization eventually. The Northrons_ wanted_ them to get to King's Landing. They wanted the Crown to know that they were coming en masse, that their doom was coming.

The gates leading into the capital were shut and barred when Daven's ragged and exhausted forces staggered up to them. He had barely allowed them time to eat and piss, let alone sleep, too desperate to get to the capital and tell Tywin what had happened.

"Who goes?" A Watchman demanded from his position atop the walls. He, and many others lining the wall, aimed crossbows and regular bows at Daven's host, prepared to fire on any enemies mad enough to attack the capital of the Seven Kingdoms.

"Ser Daven Lannister!" Daven yelled back. "I bring reinforcements for His Grace King Aenar to defend against the rebels! I must speak with Lord Tywin straight away!"

They allowed them entrance. Janos Slynt, the Commander of the City Watch, greeted him with a look of mockery.

"So_ these_ are your reinforcements?" he scoffed. "Doesn't look like they could tell the difference between a blade and a hilt. What-"

"Monsters, monsters, they were monsters," he paused on hearing what a young greenboy was weeping. "We're dead, we're all _dead_. The barbarians will kill us all! The Winterlanders are invading, we are all doomed!"

Janos Slynt, who for all his faults did have some sense (in that he was ever ready to protect himself) and who had also fought in the previous war, went pale. "He's mad," the man croaked, panic flicking in his eyes. "The Winterlanders- No, 'tis not possible. The boy is mad!"

"I_ must _speak with Lord Tywin immediately," Daven insisted. Slynt looked even more horrified when his almost-pleading statements that the lad was mad were not confirmed.

"Aye, aye," he muttered, paler than a ghost. "Oy, you!" he pointed at another Watchmen. "Escort Ser Daven to Lord Lannister, right away! Go, idiot! Hurry up and do not keep the Lord Hand waiting!"

As Daven hurried after his assigned guide, he said a silent prayer that the phrase 'what goes around comes around' would not come true for his House. Otherwise, the next ballad written about the House of Lions would be the Rains of the Rock, instead of Castamere.

More than that, he prayed that_ he_ was not about to pay the price for the Winterlanders winning the battle.

* * *

_**The Red Keep: 4th June, 303 AC**_

_Tywin:_

Tywin seethed as his cousin left, blatantly relieved that the Old Lion had not taken his anger out on the messenger.

This was an utter disaster. The Winterlanders had now officially entered the war, and their already hopeless cause was in complete ruins now.

Damn his idiot daughter for her foolish recklessness. What in the Gods' names had possessed her to perform a coup, and why was it so hard for her to do a proper one? Tywin was not one to dismiss a woman solely on her gender. His beloved Joanna had been a political genius hidden by sweet smiles, and his sister Genna was the shrewdest lady that Tywin knew. _Why_ then was Cersei such a fool, with examples such as her mother and aunt to follow?

A knock interrupted his attempts to figure out a way to salvage the wreck that his children were making of his legacy.

"What?" he barked. "Who is it?"

A trembling servant stuck his head around the edge of the doorway and held out a letter in a shaking hand. "A letter for the Crown, Your Lordship," he muttered, eyes fixed firmly on the floor. "It seems that copy was sent to every lord in Westeros."

Tywin narrowed his eyes at that, already anticipating what it was. The Winterlanders always sent out letters on the onset of a war, informing the lords and ladies of the south as to why they were attacking. Usually it happened after the fighting had already begun so they did not lose the advantage of surprise, but it always came eventually.

"Leave!" Tywin snapped as soon as he had snatched the envelope out of the servant's hand. The young boy practically ran away, as Tywin used his old letter opener (a gift from his late wife) to open the envelope.

Reading it, his nostrils flared and his heart started to have palpitations. He had to read it through twice before he was able to accept his child's stupidity.

_8__th__ April, 303 AC/8791 AW_

_Winterfell_

_The North_

_The Winterlands_

_To Whom It May Concern,_

_This is a formal declaration of war between the Winterlands (consisting of the North, the Three Sisters, the Iron Islands and the Northron Riverlands) and the Lannisters of Casterly Rock, former Wardens and Lords Paramount of the West (all titles of the aforementioned House have now been stripped and attained due to the treasonous actions of the House by His Grace King Aegon Targaryen, Sixth of His Name, King of the Six Kingdoms). _

_This declaration is based on two acts._

_First of all, the agreement between House Stark and House Targaryen, the Pact of Ice and Fire (drafted and signed this year between late February and March) demands that, when ones' throne and territories are threatened, the other comes to their defence. As the Lannisters have attempted to usurp King Aegon's legitimate and lawful rights and his claim to the Iron Throne, House Stark is thus obliged to aid the King of the South in regaining his throne and overthrowing his enemies._

_The second basis of the war declaration between the Winterlands and House Lannister is their illegal and outrageous attempt to usurp the authority of the Weirwood Throne. The so-called Queen Regent Cersei sent a letter demanding that King Eddard, Head of House Stark and King of the Winterlands, Shield of the Realm, bend the knee to the false king Aenar Targaryen and his kinslaying mother Cersei of House Lannister. They also demanded that Crown Princess Lysara and Prince Brandon be handed over as hostages, an act we have thus interpreted as death threats to His Grace the King of Winter, Her Highness the Princess and His Highness the Prince. Thus, we have no choice but to declare war and blood feud against the Lannisters of Casterly Rock. _

_All who get in our way shall pay the price. __**You have been warned.**_

_Ashara Stark of House Dayne, Queen Consort of the Winterlands_

Tywin glowered in apoplectic fury at the paragraph announcing what his thrice-cursed daughter had so stupidly done. Many times he had resented the fact that their shared blood preventing him from killing off his shameful dwarf son. Now, however, he deeply regretted the fact that he had not smothered Cersei in her crib. If he had done so, this would not have ever happened.

Flames of pain shot up his left arm, and he realized that he was breathing heavily enough that his nostrils were flaring like a horse's would. There was a tightness in his chest. He staggered to his feet, trying to breathe properly. He failed, collapsing onto all fours and cursing his daughter weakly as he succumbed to the encroaching darkness.

This was all Cersei's fault. How had he managed to sire such a complete idiot for a child? At least the Imp was clever, even if he was a disappointment in all other ways.


	19. Hatchlings of the Unworthy Dragon

**Disclaimer: I don't own ASoIaF/GoT. Sorry guys, I have exams on at the moment and am literally so exhausted I can barely write a paragraph at the time. ****. So that's why updates are taking a while.**

**But, here we are with a chapter (admittedly a bit slow but introduces a new character at the end) on the Unworthy's sons. (BTW, Viserys II still died after only two years of ruling, so he was king an extra year, but Aegon IV's reign was over a decade longer.)**

**Chapter Eighteen**

**The Hatchlings of the Unworthy Dragon**

_**King's Landing: February 14**__**th**__**, 187 AC**_

_Daenerys Targaryen (Daughter of Aegon IV):_

"Do you, Prince Maron of House Nymeros Martell, take this woman as your wedded wife?" the High Septon asked. "Willst thou honour her, love her, protect her, comfort her and keep her, in sickness and in health, for richer and for poorer, as long as you both shall live?"

"I will," Maron replied, smiling wildly. It was clear to anybody who looked that he was entranced by his beautiful new bride.

Daenerys herself was not as happy. She had known since Daeron's ascension to the Iron Throne that her love for Daemon was futile, of course. The king would never allow the match given Daemon's birth and his marriage to Rohanne but it still stung to marry somebody else, one who was a stranger to her and that had been an enemy to her people only a few decades past at that. Her father had promised them both that he would see her become Daemon's second wife, but Daeron had felt no need to hold to that promise and he had too much thoughts on politics to concern himself with his sister's happiness. With her vows, there would be peace between Dorne and the Iron Throne, and any shred of possibility of her being with her half-brother would disappear.

Still, her mother (what she recalled of the woman at least) had been dutiful to her husband in all matters despite her frailty. She had been a woman to be admired in spite of her delicate health, and Daenerys wished to emulate her as much as she could. Because of her recollections of her mother's advice on a Princess' duty, Daenerys was determined to look on the bright side. Prince Maron was a good man, from her interactions with him and from everything that Myriah had told her. He had treated her very respectfully. She thought they would be able to get along, at least, and that was better than many women got in their marriages.

The High Septon turned to look at her. She could feel Daemon's gaze boring into her back, but she did not dare to turn and look back at him. She did not think she would be able to find the strength to speak her vows if she did.

"Do you, Princess Daenerys of House Targaryen, take this man as your wedded husband?" the septon turned to her. "Willst thou obey him and serve him, love him, honour him and keep him, in sickness and in health, as long as you both shall live?"

"I will," she replied softly, forcing herself to hold her chin up high. She was a Princess of House Targaryen, a dragoness who was about to become a Princess of House Martell. She was Unbowed, Unbent, and Unbroken, and had Fire and Blood in her soul. She would not let her heartache defeat her.

"Please remove the lady's maiden cloak and replace it with your own, Prince Maron," the septon ordered, once Daenerys had made her vow.

Prince Maron did so, and Daenerys felt herself sway slightly when the orange cloak settled around her shoulders. It was made of silk, and quite light, but it seemed to symbolize so many things. Her wedding was the final act save for a few small things and the actual pledge that would complete the unification of Dorne and the Iron Throne.

"Repeat after me together seven times," the High Septon continued. "Father, Smith, Warrior, Mother, Maiden, Crone and Stranger, I am his/hers, and s/he is mine, from this day until the end of my days."

They repeated the words, and then it was almost over.

"Now, Prince Maron if you would please kiss the bride and then both of you pledge your love," the septon ordered them.

Her new lord husband leaned down and gently pressed his lips against hers for an instant before he pulled back, squeezing her hand gently. She smiled shyly at him, grateful for his kindness towards her.

Knowing that she was supposed to speak first, Daenerys spoke a second later. "With this kiss I pledge my love and take thee for my lord and husband," she murmured. She had ever been a quiet lady, similar to her late mother. Daenerys felt her heart sting at the knowledge that her mother was not here to guide her in her marriage. The princess gave a silent prayer that her own marriage would turn out better than her parents' had, even if her husband was not the one she had wished and prayed for, as with her mother and Uncle Aemon.

"With this kiss, I pledge my love and take thee for my lady and wife," Maron finished, his own voice far easier for the audience to hear.

"Prince Maron and Princess Daenerys of House Nymeros Martell are now man and wife," the septon announced. "One flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever. Cursed be the one who comes between them."

The watching crowd cheered as the septon undid the cord, and when Daenerys looked at Daemon, she shivered slightly at the rage lurking in his eyes.

She loved him, but she knew his temper well. She feared what his anger foretold for the fate of their kingdom.

* * *

_**King's Landing: 1**__**st**__** January, 189 AC**_

_Daeron II "The Good" Targaryen:_

"I, Maron, Head of House Martell, Ruling Prince of Dorne, hereby pledge my fealty, and thus that of Dorne itself, to the Iron Throne, in the Light of the Seven-Who-Are-One," Daeron's goodbrother declared. Unlike the last time a Prince of Dorne had sworn his fealty to a King Daeron Targaryen, this time, Maron wore a broad smile as he willingly and happily pledged his country's allegiance to his goodbrother. Daeron himself was beaming in satisfaction and triumph. At long last, Dorne had been properly, and peacefully, brought into the fold. The Conquest was nearly complete.

Diplomacy and marriage had worked where military might and dragons had failed with Dorne. Quietly, though he had yet to speak of it to his advisors, or even his wife, it was Daeron's hope that he could repeat his success with the other hold-out kingdom. The Winterlands were an ever-present problem, and even in 'peace' time, they still clashed on a regular basis at the borders or in the waters linking the Vale and the Three Sisters. There had been more than a few times during the twenty years of his father's reign that things had almost erupted into proper warfare yet again. One time, against Daeron's heavy protests, Aegon IV had gone so far as to order a fleet be built and wooden dragons be built by the pyromancers so as to invade. Thanks to the intervention of the Seven, however, they had been spared a restart to the war with the North when a vicious storm had destroyed the entire fleet and the fake dragons had collapsed in on themselves before they were even half-way through the kingswood. The Starks had retaliated to the attempted invasion by assaulting the Gulltown port and having their Ironborn vassals attack and pillage the coasts of the Westerlands and Reach, but otherwise had let it be, thank the Gods.

It probably helped that Queen Raya had been on her deathbed at the time, and the Winterlands were transitioning from her rule to that of her nephew Beron, otherwise Daeron suspected that their retaliation would have been far more severe.

Thousands of years of failure had proven that military actions would never bring the Winterlands into the fold. Maybe, as with Dorne, marriage and bribery would.

But that was something for later. Right now, Daeron was accepting his goodbrother's pledge of allegiance. After doing so, he lifted his good friend to his feet and the two of them walked out together amidst cheers from Dornish and Midlanders alike.

Together, they walked to the statue of Baelor I, who had, in his short time of ruling, forged a peace with Dorne that had later led to the marriages of Daeron to Myriah and Maron to Daenerys, subsequently resulting in the Ruling Prince willingly and happily bending the knee.

"Your work is done," Daeron and Maron said in unison, as previously agreed, looking up at the statue's face.

They turned to smile and wave at the cheering crowds. Daeron sought out the eyes of his wife, seeing her standing beside his smiling sister, both of them in different stages of pregnancy and his and Myriah's children surrounding them, all glowing with pride at the historical event.

* * *

_**Winterfell: 30**__**th**__** September, 208 AC**_

_King Beron XII Stark:_

King Beron stared at the letter on his desk as if it were a jar filled with wildfire, liable to explode at any moment. It had not come as a complete surprise, as the greenseers and their spies had all warned him that Daeron the Dornish-Lover was looking into non-militaristic ways of bringing the Winterlands into his domains. Beron was still uncertain as to how to respond without restarting a war they could ill-afford at a time when they were just out of a long winter and were preparing for an outbreak of a deadly epidemic.

Not to mention he was angered at the insult to his honour and that of the Starks. How dare the Southron King insult them by daring to imply he would ever spit on the sacrifices of his people, of his _House_, by bending the knee and giving up their ancient crown, a crown far more ancient than even Old Valyria itself. Thank the Gods, the man was due to die soon enough, leaving his half-brother and book-obsessed son in charge.

Beron was fond of Brynden Rivers, as much as he was able to be fond of any southron, for the man followed the Gods of his mother (whom Beron deeply regretted suffering the way she had between her capture by the Unworthy Dragon and death), and was Godstouched. He was also, according to their spies, sensible enough to advocate against any attempts, be they military or diplomatic, towards uniting the Winterlands and the rest of their people.

"He jests, surely," his second son and heir, Artos, stated, staring in disbelief at the parchment.

"I do not believe so," Beron murmured, scratching at the side of his chin in deep thought.

Beron had not expected the Crown of Bronze and Iron to fall to him. His aunt, the late Queen Raya XV, had been declared barren early on in her reign, and had thus turned to her (many) nieces and nephews to decide on an heir. Although the succession of the Weirwood Throne was very different from the way the southrons arranged their successions, it was still uncommon for the secondborn child of a tenthborn child (his father being the fifth child of the deceased King Cregan with his third wife, the late Queen Lynara Stark) to ascend to the Headship of the House.

Yet, of all of Cregan Stark's grandchildren it had been _Beron _who won the Trials, and thus it was Beron who was named as Raya's heir, taken in by her to be raised and tutored under her careful and sharp eye. She had become more of a mother to him than his own had been, due to the time he spent with her. He wondered what Raya would have thought, were she the one to receive such a proposal from the southrons.

He picked up the letter to re-read it a third time. It had taken some time to arrive after being sent, due to his people's habit of shooting down any ravens sent in their direction from the south, and then passing through the hands of many different people to get it to Beron himself.

_The Red Keep_

_King's Landing_

_The Crownlands_

_21__st__ August 208_

_To His Grace King Beron Stark, greetings,_

_Your Grace, all that I have heard of the people of the Winterlands agrees that you are people who prefer to simply get down to the point, and so I shall respect that and do so without dancing around my desires. I am certain that you are well aware of my desire to have your kingdom be a part of the rest of Westeros in truth instead of simply geographically. _

_I am sure that you have heard many things in regards to the successful unification of Dorne and the Iron Throne, some nineteen years past now. Any Dornishman will inform you of the improvements to their lives since their kingdom joined with the rest of the Kingdoms. Now, I would exchange that same offer to you and your people._

_This is my proposal: Unfortunately, my son and heir Aerys, though married for some time to Aelinor Penrose, has no children as of yet and is unlikely to have any offspring. His own heir is my grandson through my third son Rhaegal, Prince Aelor. Aelor also has a twin sister, Aelora. I propose that Aelora wed your heir, Prince Artos and then your eldest daughter, Princess Berena, would become the wife of Aelor, whom I am given to understand is quite near to her age. I would write an Act of Succession to ensure that Princess Berena's children inherit the Iron Throne._

_With the marriages, the Winterlands would come under the dominion of the Iron Throne. You would retain similar rights to those of Dorne. Whilst the Starks would no longer claim the title of 'Kings of Winter', you will still be labelled as Princes and Princesses (or an equivalent ranking title that you are welcome to choose yourself). Your House would also retain its' rule of all of its' current territories, and be the new Wardens of the North. Like Dorne, the Winterlands will have certain rights and privileges in regards to taxes and laws, that we shall negotiate and you will be welcome to maintain your traditions and culture as it currently is._

_The only difference to the lives of your people will be that they are subject to the ruler seated on the Iron Throne also instead of just House Stark, and that you will have all of the benefits of being a part of my dominions, such as free trade between all regions and no more wars between our two peoples._

_I have heard that the Starks always wish to make what is the best decision for their people. I am sure that you are an intelligent man, able to see the many benefits of your kingdoms joining the rest. I look forward to hearing your response._

_Yours sincerely,_

_Daeron II Targaryen, Head of House Targaryen, King of the Andals, the First Men and the Rhoynar, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms._

"You do not intend to accept, surely?" Artos demanded, alarmed by the thoughtful expression on his father's face.

Artos was called the 'Implacable' for many reasons. He was also deeply in love with his betrothed, Lysara Karstark, and appalled at the thought of breaking his word in order to wed a _burner_. The nobles would revolt, and rightfully so.

Beron snapped out of his contemplation, scoffing. "Certainly not," he said curtly. "But I wish to refuse the offer without restarting the war. I worry about this new King-Beyond-the-Wall, Raymun Redbeard, that we are starting to hear tales of from Hardhome, and the greenseers have foreseen a terrible illness that will affect not only our own kingdom but the Six Kingdoms also. We cannot deal with a two-way war.

But I am not Maron Martell. I will not spit on the sacrifices of our people, of everyone who gave their lives to protect and preserve our freedom from the burners, by giving up without a fight what they died to protect."

Artos bowed his head, looking ashamed. "Forgive me, my king and Father," he stated. "I ought not have doubted you."

Beron nodded curtly running his fingers through the midnight-shaded fur of his direwolf, Shadow. "Leave me," the king instructed his heir. "And have Greenseer Blackmyre sent for. I would have her council on what to do next."

He needed to find a way to delay things without restarting the war until the Dornish-Loving Dragon was dead in a few turns of the moon. After that, the matter would likely be left alone, as Aerys, from all reports, was too busy reading to care about ruling, and a Godstouched would be _sensible_. His greenseeing Chancellor would be better able to advise him on what he should do than any other.

The prince rose, bowed, and left, his own direwolf Frost padding after him.

* * *

_**The Neck: 15**__**th**__** October, 233 AC**_

_Brynden "Bloodraven" Rivers:_

Brynden Rivers, more commonly known as Bloodraven, grunted as he hacked a branch out of his way. He had been banished by his great-nephew, the new King Aegon V, for his act of promising his half-brother's son, Aenys Blackfyre, safe passage to present his claim to the Iron Throne. However, when Aenys had arrived, Bloodraven had ordered his arrest and subsequent beheading instead.

Despite the consequences, Brynden could not regret his actions. He had done what needed to be done for the good of the realm, as he had always done.

He could only pray that young Egg (not so young as that, Brynden supposed. He was married with three sons and two daughters already) could do what had to be done. To succeed as king, Aegon would need to do as his maester brother had urged him. He would have to "kill the boy, and let the king emerge". Knowing how idealistic the new king was, Bloodraven had his doubts, and he feared that Aegon's idealism would lead to tragedy. His great-nephew would no doubt be eager to improve the lives of the smallfolk among whom he had spent so much time, yet Bloodraven knew that nobility would not tolerate such reforms, and he worried how Aegon would deal with it. He had never been expected to be king, after all. It was a very unfortunate and unlikely series of events that had led to the crowning of Aegon V.

Perhaps that would be how he was known in the history books: Aegon V, the Unlikely King.

But Brynden was no longer able to help Daeron's descendant. And his visions, always strong, were haunting him more than ever.

He had been born to Aegon IV's sixth mistress, Melissa Blackwood, their third child. His mother had been taken captive by Aegon during a skirmish at the Riverwall border, and was devoted to the Gods of the Forest, River and Stone, scorning the Seven worshipped by the enemies of her people. In secret, she had taught her three children to worship her family's gods as well.

It was due to her that Brynden had understood what he had to do when he was banished._ "You are Godstouched, my son," _she had told him so long ago. _"Albinos are living weirwoods. Your dreams are messages from the Gods themselves. Always follow what they tell you, for the Gods will never lead you astray."_

Thanks to those dreams and that advice, Brynden had spent his life successfully defending the realm. He had known where to be to kill Daemon and his twin sons at the Battle of the Redgrass Field in 196, he had spent years ruling the realm and ferreting out treason, learned of and foiled the plot to declare Daemon II Blackfyre as King, and much more besides.

Now, his dreams had guided him north, to the Neck along with his lover and half-sister, Shiera Seastar. Thanks to Shiera's Essosi sorcery, his dreams, and his warging abilities, they had managed (with great difficulty) to evade the tight security of the Riverwall, and made their way to the Neck.

Now, he sensed that they were almost at the end of their journey.

"Brynden Rivers!" a voice, high and clear, cut through his thoughts. Shiera lifted her bow as Brynden raised his sword, preparing to fight, only to falter at the sight of the tiny woman with big blue eyes that seemed to take up half her face who had suddenly appeared before him. It was rare that people managed to do something like that, and it caught him off-guard.

"Who are you?" Shiera demanded suspiciously.

The crannogwoman smiled at them, bowing in Brynden's direction. "I am Alivia Greengood, an apprentice Greenseer. The High Greenseer saw your arrival, Bloodraven, and I was given the honour of being sent to find you.

Come, Gods' Blessed, and Lover of the Gods' Blessed. The High Greenseer awaits you. Any Godstouched is welcome in these lands."

Brynden and Shiera exchanged quick looks, but they had little option. It was clear that the sole reason they had learned of Alivia's presence was because she had deliberately shown herself to them. If there were others in the trees, they would not be able to detect them. They could only follow Alivia and hope that she was not leading them into a trap.

And at last gain answers to everything they had been dreaming of.


	20. Choosing the Path

**Disclaimer: I don't own ASoIaF/GoT. ****Omg, I'm alive! Shocker, I know. I was really busy studying for my college entrance exams but they very helpfully decided to cancel them last week (that's half sarcastic, half not. On one hand, who enjoys exams? On the other, I'm home schooled and the department WILL NOT explain what'll happen with the grades for home schoolers which is seriously annoying and freaking me out.) At any rate, back now. **

**But I kinda lost my inspiration for my ASoIaF/GoT stories, and I've gotten into this show, Arrow. However, I'm determined to continue them, so hopefully it won't be disappointing. PoWPoS is in the home stretch now! (And just to remind anyone who forgot, Aenar and Valaena are Rhaegar and Cersei's children, but Aelyx is Jaime's son.)**

**Read, enjoy and review, and above all, everyone stay safe and sane during this disaster!**

**Chapter Nineteen**

**Choosing The Path To The Future**

_**King's Landing: 14**__**th**__** October, 303 AC**_

_Ser Jaime "The White Lion" Lannister:_

"Your Graces," the messenger shook with terror as he knelt before the thrones. "I come bearing grave news. The scouts have discovered that ah, the Usurper's heathen army is advancing rapidly. At the rate they're approaching, they will reach and surround King's Landing within the sennight."

Aenar's green eyes blazed with fury, the emerald orbs resembling wildfire. On the third step of the dais, two steps below her brother-husband and a step below her mother (one of Cersei's demands), Queen Valaena flinched slightly at her lord husband's rage. The four-and-ten-year-old consort had learned the hard way of her brother's brutal nature, most especially since their marriage several moons past.

"Fools!" the young king exclaimed. "How worthless are my armies, that they cannot stop, or even slow an army made up of barbarians and traitors?"

Jaime saw Cersei clench the armrests of her throne tightly, otherwise maintaining an even, regal demeanour save for her flashing eyes. She too realized the grimness of this news.

This was a disaster for their cause, which was already in tatters, especially given Lord Tywin's recent death. Already, the Winterlander fleet had blockaded the Blackwater, and were regularly launching attacks from the distance. They had also managed, several times, to get scouts inside the city and even the Red Keep itself, destroying food supplies or anything else that could be used to keep the royal family afloat during the coming siege, though for whatever reason they had not killed anybody. Once the enemy army had surrounded the land entrances, the citizens of the city would be trapped and cut off from any aid.

Not that there was any more help coming. Varys had given them the news just yesterday. The reluctant Crownlander levies had all surrendered or been defeated by now, while the Riverlander army was engaged in battle with the Vale one, and the Stormlands were pinned between half of the Reach army and half of the Dornish one, the other halves having made their way to join the king they served. To cap it all off, the survivors of the Westerlands' army (not quite fourteen thousand) had already come to reinforce the capital, and due to the lack of defences, Casterly Rock itself had fallen to the Northrons.

Cersei gave a sweet smile to her eldest son, though Jaime could see beneath her mask to the fury she was concealing. "My darling boy," she cooed to Aenar. "Perhaps we all ought to adjourn and confer with the Small Council on a plan to defeat these barbarians?"

Aenar looked thoughtful, before nodding and rising. "Yes, Mother, an excellent idea," he agreed. He turned to the guards lining the hall as the messenger slumped in relief at seemingly escaping punishment for the bad news he had given the king. "You there," he pointed at one. "Take this fool to the Black Cells. See he is appropriately punished for this." Jaime winced as the messenger groaned in fear, babbling pleas for mercy that his nephew ignored.

Stone-faced, the guard approached the messenger and lifted him, beginning to drag him out towards the side entrance. Jaime hurried over, gesturing for Moore to follow the royal family into the antechamber.

"Release him once outside," Jaime ordered the guard in a low voice, before turning to the messenger. "You. The king is unlikely to recognize you, but once you are free, make sure to stay out of his sight anyway, just in case."

"Thank you, Ser," he whimpered in relief. "Thank you!"

Jaime gave a curt nod, squashing the guilt and shame he felt, before turning away and hastening to join his sister and her children along with the Small Council in the meeting chamber.

"We must contrive a plan to defeat the barbarians!" Aenar demanded loudly, banging the table. "They must all die. Who are they, to defy _me_? I am a dragon, the King of the Seven Kingdoms! I want them all dead!"

"Of course, Your Grace," Varys cooed. "But their numbers are strong. They outnumber us, two to one, and they have blocked off the sea and destroyed most of our supplies. I fear this is a battle that we cannot win."

Everyone gave Varys impressed looks, surprised by his courage.

Aenar jumped to his feet, infuriated. Poor Valaena, who had bruises on her face and arms barely covered by her make-up and sleeves, flinched violently at the sudden movement. Jaime felt sick whenever he looked at her, thrown back in time to the reign of King Aerys and reminded of sweet Queen Rhaella, how she seemed afraid to even breathe around her brother-husband at times. How had Aenar turned out so wrong? Jaime wanted to blame the Targaryen blood in the boy, but he feared it was a punishment from the Seven to he and Cersei, for their incest and broken vows. And now that his father, the Great Lion, was dead, there was nobody to keep the mad boyking in line.

At least Valaeana and Aelyx were sane. It was a small comfort.

"Traitor!" he cried. "Traitor! How dare-?"

"Varys is right, Nephew," Jaime interrupted, diverting their attention to him. Cersei gave him a betrayed look. "We do not have enough men or resources to survive a siege. We have no other choice. I implore you, for your own sake as well as that of your wife and the babe she carries, to leave the city. We still have time before the Winterlanders arrive. We can smuggle you and your family out to safety, regroup with our allies and-"

"No!" Aenar screamed. "No! Only cowards like my usurping brother flee! I am no craven! If I die, I shall die fighting as king!"

Jaime suppressed a scoff at that. Aenar probably couldn't tell the hilt of a sword from a blade. He was the most cowardly boy Jaime'd ever had the misfortune to meet, expecting people to surrender to him solely because of his title.

"Your Grace, I beg you-" Jaime began to say, only for Cersei to interrupt.

"Enough, Jaime," she ordered harshly. "You know as well I do that if Aenar were to flee, it would be the same as surrendering. We shall not go."

"As Your Graces demand," he sighed helplessly. His eyes drifted over to Valaena as the Council turned their attention to strategizing. It was obvious to everybody save for the Queen Regent and King that it was a lost cause, but they tried. Aelyx was but a boy, Valaena a frightened mother-to-be. Aelyx was his son, a gentle boy, and Val was his niece. She reminded him of Cersei, before their mother died and their father filled her head with a lust for the Iron Throne. The Cersei he had fallen in love with, not the woman who was before him now.

Had Tywin not suffered a heart attack, they might have stood a slight chance. If anybody could have figured out a solution, it would be the greatest lord the Westerlands had ever had. But Tywin was dead, and Tyrion, who was far smarter than Jaime had ever been, was in Casterly Rock, either dead or a hostage of the Winterlanders. Jaime was the only one left who could protect his family, but it was obvious that Cersei and Aenar would rather be dead than give in. That did not mean that they had to bring Val and Aelyx down with them.

**PoWPoSPoWPoSPoWPoS**

That night, Jaime used the secret passages used by the Kingsguard to steal into first Aelyx, then Valaena's rooms to wake and usher them from their beds. Thankfully, Aenar was not in the habit of spending the night in his sister-wife's chambers, simply visiting her then leaving. He had not visited her bed at all since she announced her pregnancy.

"Uncle Jaime?" she murmured sleepily once he had shaken her awake as gently as he could. "What are you-?"

"Shush," he urged her, pressing a finger to his lips. She blinked awake properly, nodding silently and shooting an anxious look at the door. Jaime knew that in the outer chamber, at least two of her ladies would be sleeping, ready to assist their royal mistress should she require anything during the night. "Take these and dress quickly," he instructed her quietly, holding out a long wool dress, like those worn by the commons of King's Landing, as well as a pair of thick boots and a long black cloak.

Jaime himself was dressed as a merchant, his sword hidden by his cloak and a sheath made of leather instead of the metal most knights had their sheaths made of. Aelyx too had received commoner's clothing to disguise himself.

Jaime could only pray it would be enough.

Val obeyed him silently, stepping behind the changing screen to pull on the dress before exiting again and following him into the passageway.

"Uncle, what is happening?" she pressed once they were inside the passage. Jaime lifted the torch out of its' holder and began leading the way.

Once, Val's voice would've been petulant and demanding, but the months since her father's death had changed the girl. Gone was the spoilt but sweet-natured girl she had once been, replaced by a solemn young woman who was soon to be a mother, Seven willing.

"We are leaving," Jaime sighed. "There is no way to survive this. Aegon has too much support, both within and without the kingdoms. The three of us shall flee the capital tonight, and as soon as we reach an unblockaded port, we will sail for safety in the Free Cities."

"But what of the throne?" Aelyx inquired. He too had matured, though he remained painfully shy, not to mention being rather round and clumsy. His cat, Vhagar was clutched tightly to his chest. "Are we going to the Free Cities so that Val can bear the heir to the Iron Throne in safety?"

"My child is not heir to anything, Aelyx," Val sighed, one hand pressed against her stomach. "Aegon is the rightful king, everyone knows it is true. I am more concerned with Mother. Will she be joining us?"

Jaime sighed, shoulders slumping. He stopped walking and turned to the pair. "Your mother is determined to remain with Aenar until the very end," he informed them glumly, making their eyes shine with unshed tears. "And he will not leave, as he has stated. But she desires the safety of her children above all. She pretended to dismiss my suggestion earlier to disguise our intentions of having the two of you smuggled to safety. She sends her love and the blessings of the Gods to the both of you."

It was a small white lie, in Jaime's opinion. He was sure that, were Cersei not so distraught by their father's sudden death and the chaos of the past few moons, she would have agreed with his suggestion. Before this, the safety and happiness of her children was her top priority, above even the Iron Throne. At least, that was what Jaime believed. Sometimes he had his doubts, but he had to believe that much about her, at least.

She was his sister, the love of his life, his other half, his _soulmate_. He had to believe the best of her, because everyone else believed the worst.

"Come along now," he said then, straightening and turning to continue leading the way. This particular passage would take them to near the Mud Gate. They would have to go on foot, but masses of people were fleeing the city, and the gates had not yet been shut, as Lord Velaryon had pointed out that the more citizens who left, the less people they had to feed. Jaime and his children would escape in the mass of peasants all desperate to escape the doomed capital.

All they had to do was get there safely.

* * *

_**The Kingswood: 14**__**th**__** October, 303 AC**_

_Oberyn:_

"We have things to discuss, my princess," Oberyn breathed into Sara's ear. They were naked and sweaty, having just completed a blissful session of lovemaking, and she was wrapped in his embrace, her chestnut curls spread over his chest as her fingers idly traced his scars. It somehow felt more intimate than the actual sex.

"Oh?" she asked idly, her grey gaze fixed on a scar he'd received fighting for the Second Sons whilst travelling the Free Cities. It was an interesting one, admittedly. The Dothraki had some strange weapons, and that particular scar had come from a curved sword, leaving a raised, twisting mark on his chest, the opposite side to his heart. He had barely survived, even though the wound itself had not been too deep. Despite that, only the intervention of some Volantene healer had saved him. "What matters must we speak of, my snake?"

"What will happen after the war is over," he replied steadily. She paused in the middle of her tracing, but at least this time, unlike all of the other times, she didn't refuse outright to discuss the matter. "We cannot continue to put off making our decisions, and soon we will have captured King's Landing. After that, like as not we will be too busy to talk. You are well aware of this."

"I am," she admitted. "What is your wish for after the war?" She refused to meet his gaze, but she didn't leave either, and Oberyn found hope in that fact.

"I wish to return with you to Winterfell," he answered, twisting a lock of brunette hair around his finger. "With my daughters. I think they would be happy in the Winterlands, where women are as free as men. I want to help raise Mariah. I have missed so much of her life already."

He kept any hint of accusation or anger from his voice, but Sara tensed anyway. He stroked her bare back, his own fingers grazing the various scars that littered her form and that he had become intimately familiar with over the past few moons. She had gained more than a few in between Braavos and his party's arrival in the stronghold of the Starks. Most southron men would've been repulsed by scars marring a woman's body, but Oberyn could only revel in the proof of her strength.

"I wish to be with you," he added finally. "The Kings put clauses into the Pact, as I am sure you recall, to trade ambassadors, as our courts do with the Free Cities. I would volunteer for that post. Even if you wish to end our relationship, I will still do so, to be with Mariah."

She sighed, finally meeting his dark eyes with her own. The storm that raged within them entranced him every time they locked eyes with one another. "I do not wish to end our relationship," she admitted. He couldn't have stopped the pleased smile he gained if he had wanted to. "But I cannot marry you, if that is your desire," she warned him. "I am betrothed, and Edderion is a good man. We are not in love, but I will not bring shame on everybody involved by ending the betrothal, and my people would never accept a burner as my consort either."

"Would they accept me as your lover?" he replied evenly. He hated to contemplate the possibility of sharing her, he had always been a possessive man and although he'd partaken of multiple lovers at once before and found great enjoyment in such, the thought of doing such with Sarra was, _unappealing_, to say the least.

"Our children could never be in line for the Weirwood Throne, save if everybody else in the line of succession, including my siblings and their own future children, were all dead or incapable of bearing heirs," she stated frankly. "And there must never be a hint of favouritism towards the south, nor a whisper that any child I bear, or I myself, has begun worshipping your Seven. But so long as you do not attempt to influence us in favour of the south, at least more than the position of ambassador would require, I believe they would accept it. My mother has been working on our behalf for such, and she writes that her efforts have borne fruit."

He smiled in pleasure. "That, I am glad to do," he replied without hesitation. "I would convert to your religion, if it betters my odds of being able to stay with you and our daughter."

She gave him a stunned look, that swiftly softened into a rare look of tenderness. "Truly?" she inquired. "You would convert? Just for Mariah and I?"

"I have never cared much for the Seven," he replied, hoping his sincerity showed to her. "They have never given me much reason to believe in them. My devotion to you and our child is far stronger than my devotion to Them."

She stared at him for several long seconds, before lunging forward and pressing her lips against his, pouring all the love and devotion that all of her training to maintain her emotional distance prevented her from saying aloud to him.

He willingly kissed her back, and they proceeded to show each other the love neither of them were easily able to bring themselves to openly admit the best way they could.

* * *

_**Winterfell: 16**__**th**__** October, 303 AC**_

_Paladin Arthur "The Sword of Morning" Dayne:_

"My King, I would speak with you," Arthur stated, kneeling before his monarch and goodbrother.

King Eddard surveyed him with knowing eyes, waving to grant him leave to speak. "Speak then, my loyal Paladin," he instructed the silver-haired man. "What weighs upon your mind? I think that I can guess at it."

Arthur inhaled and exhaled, daring to meet his king's eyes. He had a deep friendship with the man, one that dated back to long before the king had even met Arthur's sister, let alone passed the Trials and become heir and then King of the Winterlands. It was a connection that gave Arthur many liberties, but it was that same connection that was causing guilt to twist his stomach into knots. The greenseer he had consulted, Greenseer Woolfield, had assured him that he could find great joy if he were to follow this path, but a large part of him left as if he were betraying his sworn liege and brother.

"A Shoilse," he began formally. "I am aware that, once the Usurping Lions have been defeated, you will be sending an Ambassador to the Southron capital to live there and be a bridge between our two peoples. I wish to request to be the one to take up the post."

Eddard surveyed him with an impenetrable expression. "Why?" he asked simply.

Arthur exhaled again, looking down. "I would, if she would have me, request the hand of the Queen Mother Elia in marriage."

The King's expression remained even, showing no hint of his thoughts or opinion on the match. "Why?" he repeated.

"I love her, my King," Arthur confessed. "In a way I have not loved anybody since, since Lyna's death. I want to wed her, but I cannot ask her to leave her children behind, and I would be fearful of her health, if she remained too long in our climate."

A familiar pang stung his heart when he mentioned Lyna, but it was duller than it used to be. Lyna, spearwife of the Giantsbane Free Folk Clan, had been his betrothed, lost to him in a Shivers epidemic before his eldest niece's birth.

Gentle, frail-of-health Elia was the opposite of the fierce warrior women in every possible way, from personality to looks (Lyna had been blessed by fire, with crimson curls cut to her shoulders and done in a dozen braids paired with pale skin, calloused hands and fierce eyes the colour of the sea), yet she soothed him. Her sweet nature brought a feeling of peace to him that he had never felt before in his memory, just by being with her and he had swiftly become addicted to the feeling.

Eddard the King softened into Ned the friend and brother, and he stood, coming closer to clap Arthur on his shoulder. The crannog and Children blood that flowed through the Starks' veins several times over meant that, despite their imposing presence, the Starks were a terribly short family, and so he had to tilt his head back to meet Arthur's eyes and reach up to reach his shoulder when so close. From any other, it might have appeared amusing, but the Starks were not so.

"Then wed the lady with my blessing and best wishes, Brother," he urged. "For you have well-earned this blessing from the Gods. I pray you and she live a long, happy life together."

"Thank you, Brother," Arthur replied, kneeling to receive his liege's blessing. Then, heartened, he went to seek out the Queen Mother of the South, to lay his heart before her and ask her to accept it, and entrust him with her own.


	21. Sun and Sword

**Disclaimer: The world of Westeros belongs to George R.R. Martin, I'm just playing in his sandbox for a bit.**

**Just to alert everybody that I've done a bit of editing of the old chapters, nothing major, adding a line here, correcting a spelling mistake there and so on. Thanks to everyone reading and enjoying this story.**

**Keep reading, enjoying and reviewing!**

**Chapter Twenty**

**The Union of the Sun and Sword**

_**Winterfell: 16th October, 303 AC**_

_Elia:_

Elia started in surprise when the knock came. Then she relaxed, recognizing the rhythm. "Just a moment, please," she called, rising to her feet and retying the knot on her dressing gown.

She checked herself in the looking glass, deciding that she was as well-dressed as she could be given she had been spending the day reading before the fire in her rooms and had no maid with her to help her change (nor did she wish to leave Paladin Dayne waiting so long). Hoping that he would not be displeased that she was dressed in her nightgown and robe, a pair of fur lined slippers covering her stockinged feet, she hastened to the door, pulling it open to reveal the patiently waiting man. The two guards, previously sailors assigned to Oberyn's ship, (Ser Garlan had stayed behind to be their Kingsguard whilst the other knights went to war with their king, but it was more important that he protect Margaery and Daeron than Elia, and so Elia was protected by the Dornishmen who'd bravely taken them to safety) were there as well. At this point, he had spent so much time with her, they were as unconcerned by his presence as she was.

"Elia," Arthur said her name in his thick Northron accent, the deep voice sending pleasurable shiver down her spine. "If you would grant me leave, I would speak with you, ah, without others?"

She smiled at him, quietly hoping that he retained his accent and slight difficulty with Andaii. He had been quick to gain fluency in her native tongue, but he still had a certain way of speaking that she found strangely attractive.

"Of course," she agreed. "Would you like to come in?"

"Yes, please," he nodded, following her inside.

"I have some tea brewing," she offered. "Would you like a cup?"

"No, thank you," he shook his head. "I wish to speak with you immediately. I cannot wait."

She felt a bolt of alarm, worried that he had received bad news from the front. He showed no grimness, but she thought he seemed a bit nervous beneath his Northron stoicism.

"Is everything well?" she asked anxiously. "Has there been news from the army?"

He insistently shook his head, reaching out to rest a hand on her arm in comfort. "Ní hea, ní hea **(no, no)**," he denied. "Forgive me, I did not intend to distress you. I simply-I have a question for you, and I cannot bring myself to wait."

Elia relaxed in relief. "Oh, forgive me for overreacting please," she apologized, Arthur dismissing it immediately.

"There is nothing to be forgiven," he assured her. He hesitated, then went before her onto one knee, reaching into his pocket to withdraw a beautiful silver ring with a jewel on top it, cut into the shape of a seven-pointed star. It was a moonstone, she recalled. A rare gem in the south, but House Dayne apparently had their seat on a mine of it.

"I am unsure how this is done for your people," he admitted, tone apologetic. "But in my culture, when a man seeks the hand of a lady, he goes before on his knees and offers her a ring. The kneeling is to show his deep desire, and the ring symbolizes eternity."

Elia felt her breath catch. One hand covered her mouth as Arthur took the other, pressing a reverent kiss to her fingertips.

Rhaegar had never treated her in such a manner, as if she were the most precious treasure he had ever been gifted with.

"I have been granted leave by my King to take up the position of Ambassador to the South," Arthur informed her. "So if you honour my request, you would not need to leave your children behind. I vow, I would never shame or harm you. I would stand between you and all threats, defend and love you as the blessing from the Gods that you are. You are as your House's emblem, the sun of my world now. I cannot be worthy of a woman as mighty and strong, as beautiful as you, yet I would seek every day for the rest of our lives to be so. And so I dare to come before you on my knees and beg for your favour and acceptance of my heart's greatest desire.

Elia Targaryen, of House Martell, Queen Mother of the Six Kingdoms and Princess of Dorne," he continued, staring up at her as if he was a septon and she were the Maiden come before him. "Will you do me the honour of becoming my wife?"

"I cannot bear you any children," she warned him. Her eyes swam with tears, and she longed with all her heart to accept immediately, but she could not deceive him. A wife's primary duty was to give her lord husband sons and daughters, and that was not something she could do.

He shook his head, expression of love and adoration unchanged by her confession. "I have raised my nephew as my own son," he replied. "Have helped raise and teach my sister's children. I need no children from you. What I seek is your heart, for I have given mine to you."

"You have my heart already," she told him, her tears spilling onto her cheeks as she revelled in the love this man, who held her hand so gently yet was the most fearsome of warriors, gave her. She had never been treasured in such a way, and she could have died happy right there, so long as he kept looking at her that way.

"So you will marry me?" he asked hopefully.

"Yes," she breathed. "Yes!"

He jumped to his feet, and pulled her into a passionate kiss. She returned it, not even caring when she lost her breath, for how could she feel anything but delight when she was being bathed in the love of the best man she had ever been graced to meet.

In that minute, she believed him when he called her the sun, for how else would she be able to glow the way she was?

* * *

_**Outskirts of King's Landing: 21st October, 303 AC**_

_Ariella:_

Ariella could not help but study the Crownless Dragon intently. Inwardly, she smirked as he tried valiantly to hide his discomfort. His guard, one of the men in those ridiculously impractical whitecloaks, was not so successful. She wondered if it was her staring unblinkingly at him that unnerved him, or if it was her appearance. She had inherited thick black curls from her Blackwood mother, but her left eye was blood red (as had been the case for her father and his three sisters, their mother, grandfather and great-grandfather, ever since their House's founding). The right eye was a blue-tinted purple in her case.

Her young House had never been large, and she was almost all that remained of it now, after losing three siblings to the recent Wight War and one to a fever in childhood. Her cousins were all members of their fathers' Houses, sharing no features or skills with her own. She was a Greenseer, not a warrior, and she would not have come to the war front had she not been so curious about the dragons and what they were like in person.

After all, in another, far different life, she might've been raised as their kin.

"My la-ah, Good Greenwoman," the Crownless gave her an uncomfortable smile, stumbling over the correct address. "Might I aid you in some manner?"

She tilted her head thoughtfully. "I am Ariella," she introduced herself at last. Her Andaii was far better than that of most of her people. She barely had an accent. "Of House Ravenstar. I am the twice-greats granddaughter of the one you call Bloodraven and his lover Shiera Seastar. I came to lay eyes on the land they were born and raised in, and the descendants of the kin that betrayed them."

Around them, most people were going about setting up the camp for the siege. They surrounded the capital city of the south and everyone was determinedly ignoring the disgusting smell of shit that was carried to them by the wind (though more than a few pointed comments were made in the hearing of the southrons, pointing out the superior lay-out of Wintercity and its' sewer system.). No one bothered to pay attention to the stunned young King Claimant, or his equally shocked guard.

"You stun me, my magnara," Aegon the Crownless finally croaked out. "We had thought Bloodraven and his sister went to Essos after their banishment."

"No," Ariella shook her head. She wore her curls loose, with several thin braids with beads woven into the locks. She felt the beads (carved and painted by her late elder sister Melissa as a present the day she left to begin training as a Greenseer) bat against her cheeks, briefly staining them red. "Bloodraven is an albino, and thus blessed by the Gods of the Forest, River and Stone. His mother was kidnapped by Aegon the Rapist, and she raised him to worship our gods in secret. She knew that it would be vital for him, for albinos are humanoid weirwood trees. He Saw that he must come North. Shiera followed him out of love. She had magic in her veins through her Lysene mother, and so the Greenseers agreed to train her also. When their training was done, they had a son, Daeron. He was my great-grandfather. So you see, I am kin to you, and I wished to see whether or not you are worthy of Bloodraven's belief in you."

"You speak as if the man still lives," the whitecloak scoffed, though he still looked pale and anxious.

Ariella turned her gaze to him, hiding a smirk at the way he shifted in discomfort at her eyes. "He does," she stated serenely.

"Impossible!" the guard, who was beginning to annoy her, the same way a cricket that wouldn't stop chirruping annoyed a person, blurted out. "The man was born in 175, for the love of the Gods! He'd be well over a hundred by now, were he still alive!"

"Indeed," Ariella hummed. "You do know how to do sums, after all. I am impressed, I had not believed you had so much ability to think."

He looked deeply offended but she ignored him and went on. "Grandfather has seen one-hundred and twenty-eight namedays."

"How can he still be alive then?" her distant cousin asked, shocked. "Is that a common age for Winterlanders to live to?"

Ariella scoffed at that. "Of course 'tisn't," she sniffed disdainfully, her Winterlander side amused by his blatant embarrassment at the stupidity of his question. "In fact, because of our harsh lives, we tend to live shorter lives than you southrons do. But Grandfather is a Godstouched, a vessel for the Gods. They will keep him alive as long as they require him. Though, his health has begun to fade these past few years." She could not keep her sorrow out of her expression and tone as she made that admission. "He served as High Greenseer for the latter part of King Beron's reign, all the way through to King Eddard's reign. 'twas only a few years past that he retired as advisor to the King, after the end of the most recent Wight War. Now he lives in Wintershold on the Isle of Faces, which is the headquarters of the Greenseers, where we go to train and such."

"I see," Aegon murmured. He hesitated before offering tentatively. "If it would be possible, I would dearly like to meet my distant uncle. I know that history becomes more and more distorted over the years. I would like to hear the truth from someone who lived it."

Ariella smiled approvingly at him. "When the war has ended," she replied. "I will take you to the Isle, where you might meet Grandfather. He will be pleased to see you. I think he wishes to make amends with the last of his kin before joining Grandmother in Valhalla."

"I look forward to it," was the Southron King's sincere reply.


	22. Visions of Fire

**Disclaimer: I don't own ASoIaF/GoT. Nearly there guys, just a couple more chapters. I always feel so sad at this point in a story. 🙁 (To my ASoV readers, I've still got writer's block on it, but I'm not abandoning it, I promise!) And thanks to everyone whose been so kind and understanding about my exams. It's as sorted as it can be at the moment (continuous assessment based on our school work instead of exams), but I won't know my grades until mid-August, which sucks. Everyone wish me luck (thank God my teachers all like me)!**

**Chapter Twenty-One**

**Visions of Fire**

_**King's Landing: 22**__**nd**__** October, 303 AC**_

_Cersei:_

Cersei couldn't believe it, even now. Jaime had abandoned her in her hour of need, left her behind and run away like a coward, abandoning his oaths as a Kingsguard and those as a brother and lover to protect her. Not only that, but he had stolen away her children as well.

It made her blood burn with rage to recall his treason, but she forced herself not to think of it. Their last stand was what she had to be focused on. Most of the rabble had fled in the week between Jaime abandoning her and the arrival of the barbarians' army, the fearful, insignificant ants scurrying away in fear of the Winterlands' legendary wrath. However, the Gates had all been shut when a scout had warned that the army was on their doorstep. King's Landing was so full of citizens, and with the port blocked for so long, there were still the best part of three million people within, though most of that number was made up of the smallfolk.

Cersei was unconcerned with the peasants, of course. She wasn't Elia, with the weak woman's soft heart. She had always scorned her husband's first wife and how she showered charity on the smallfolk. If it had been to gain support for her son, Cersei could have understood it more, though she still sneered at the thought of needing support from _peasants_. But no, Elia gave out alms because she truly cared for the sheep. It made Cersei scoff in contempt at the older woman's weakness. Things like that were why men thought so little of their gender.

The commons existed solely to serve their betters, or die for them in wars such as this one. And Cersei hardly cared at all for the fate of the treasonous nobility either, at this point. In fact, she and Aenar had been forced to throw many a noble into the dungeons or have them executed, when they had dared to suggest surrendering to the heathens, or even go so far as to whisper that her son's actions resembled those of his paternal grandfather.

How dare anyone compare her son, born of the dragons and lions, the greatest Houses in the world, to Aerys the Mad? The mere thought enraged her.

Unless they took drastic measures, their cause was hopeless, Cersei knew it as well as everyone else. Despite what her gender caused people to assume, she was an intelligent woman, a shrewd ruler, never mind what her father said. He'd been ailing from his illness already, else he'd have supported her actions. His illness had affected his mind, she knew it. She'd made the right decisions, he had just been too sick to see the truth of that.

Had archaic laws not prevented it, Cersei would have ruled the Rock better than Jaime, and certainly better than the Imp could ever have managed. But she'd been a girl, and so relegated to birthing heirs with Lannister blood instead. Not that she would ever be able to regret any of her golden children, but she still raged at the injustice of it all.

At least they would be able to bring her blasted stepson and his army of heathens down with them. Cersei felt her rouge-painted lips curve into a dark smirk at the thought.

"Lord Hallyne," she greeted the newly-arrived Grand Master of the Alchemists' Guild. The pallid man greeted her with a jerky bow, accepting her delicate hand into his own sweaty one to press his dry and chapped lips against her smooth skin. She hid her irritation, bolstering herself with the reminder of the benefits of dealing with the man.

"Your Grace," Hallyne murmured respectfully. "Thank you for responding so promptly to my note."

She waved him off gracefully. "His Grace my son and I take a keen interest in the Guild," she promised him. "And its work most of all. Is the project we assigned you prepared?"

"It is, Your Grace," Hallyn confirmed, his thin lips curving into a smile. "The caches are ready, and our most trusted acolytes and servants have placed them all."

"Nobody will say anything?" Cersei demanded sharply. She had ordered the preparations be made in utmost secrecy, so that the tree worshipping heretics would be unable to come up with a way to avoid the flames that would engulf the city on Cersei's order. The Red Keep would be safe, however. She had been firm when ordering that. Everything would be placed at a distance from the Red Keep, between the Gates and the three hills.

She and her son would watch in glee as the attackers burned to death in wildfire in the midst of their would-be triumph. Then, once they had defeated the enemy invaders, they would deal with her blasted stepdaughter, hiding away in the Eyrie. A Faceless Man would probably be the best solution to the problem of eliminating Rhaenys and her spawn. Then they would be able to find Jaime and her younger children, Valaena would birth Aenar's heir, and everything would be as it should be. She would, of course, aid her inexperienced son in ruling, and claim the Rock from the Imp, with Aelyx taking up the Lannister name and becoming heir to the Westerlands.

Everything would be perfect.

Cersei listened to Hallyn swear to the Seven Above that all of those charged with placing the caches were unaware of the truth of their missions and were sworn to secrecy on what they did know, and she smiled.

* * *

_**Outskirts of King's Landing: 22nd October, 303 AC**_

_Alivia Greengood:_

Alivia Greengood was a strong greenseer. She was a crannogwoman and the greensight ran strongly in her family, on both sides. She was the distant granddaughter of High Greenseer Greengood, the greenseer who had served Torrhen the Defiant, and also of Greenseer Blackmyre, who had been the High Greenseer during King Beron's reign, and they were not the only ones of her ancestors who had held that exalted position. It was likely that she would one day hold it herself too. Because of her strong sight and control, she had received the honour of being assigned as the leader of the greenseers who had come south with Princess Lysara for the war, of which there were five.

To the Andals, the most sacred number was seven, to represent their Seven-Who-Are-One. For the First Men, the most sacred number was five. It had taken five days for the world to be formed by the Gods, there were five aspects of the spirit, and so on, so forth. It took five greenseers to form a Seeing Circle, which was what the group was currently doing, so as to See the possible outcomes of the siege, and determine the way to victory with the least amount of death.

A Seeing Circle was, as previously mentioned, made up of five Greenseers melding their powers so that the leader of the circle would be able to See as strongly as possible, and direct the vision to a point. Some were even able to interact with their visions to a certain extent.

"Is everyone ready?" Alivia inquired, glancing at her four companions. There were two men and, counting her, three women. Like her, they were all crannogmen.

The two males of the group were Greenseers Jojen Reed, heir to the High Greenseer and Dorren Fenn. Jojen was seven-and-ten, a close friend to Prince Brandon and his goodbrother-to-be, while Dorren was a grizzled man of five-and-forty, but as spry as ever. He had the honour of being one in a thousand greenseers who was also a skinchanger. His warg familiar, a hawk he called Opal, was perched on his shoulder.

Her female companions were Jessa of House Peat, a girl Princess Arya's age with curly yellow hair and deep red eyes that shocked the southrons whenever they saw them. Several fools had even whispered she was a demon of some sort. In fact, Jessa was a descendant of Brynden the Bloodraven and Shiera the Star of the Sea's granddaughter, and her red eyes and greenseeing abilities were from that line.

Lastly, there was Ariella Ravenstar, Jessa's cousin and the heiress of House Ravenstar. Her widowed father was the head. She was the one holding the weirwood paste they needed for the ceremony.

"Yes," they all agreed.

"Then we shall begin," Alivia declared, everyone kneeling in the dirt and Ariella putting the bowl of paste in the centre. It would have been better if they were in a godswood, but there were none in the south beyond the Riverwall. They'd all been converted into perfumed gardens, their hearttrees cut down and weirwoods burned down. It made Alivia shudder in horror to think of such a terrible sin being committed, though of course what else could be expected from Andals?.

The Crownless' promise to have a godswood planted in King's Landing was a small comfort. She prayed the southrons would follow their king's lead. They did not have to give up their own Seven, but planting weirwoods would spread the True Faith, and that was something every pious First Man desired.

While her companions chanted the required intonation in the Old Tongue, Alivia reached out and scooped up some weirwood paste with her fingers, bringing it to her mouth and swallowing quickly, forcing herself not to gag in disgust at the foul taste. As she ingested the mixture, she prayed mentally to the Gods.

_'Oh Great Gods of the Forest, River, and Stone, I do beseech You all,' _she thought._ 'Show me what we must do to conquer King's Landing, sparing as many lives as can be.'_

A second later, she was slumping to the ground, unconscious, as she succumbed to the visions the Gods sent to her.

There were a thousand different time streams, many showing their victory. But there were many others, too. Horrific scenes of green fire engulfing the capital, spreading out of control regardless of desperate attempts to quell the flames and killing anyone, defender, attacker or innocent, in its path. No matter what fate met the army, the Winterlands fought back and subdued the lions, yet the damage incurred by the deaths of thousands of Winterlander and southron soldiers, including the Crown Princess of the North, the King of the South and a Prince of Dorne, had grave consequences for both kingdoms. In most of those futures, their fragile new alliance crumbled due to the distrust between the two peoples, and the grief over the losses.

Alivia cried out, horrified, as she watched the terrible sights, particularly the one that she Saw in its entirety, the path most likely to occur.

_The fire shone brightly in the night. Screams and yells could be heard, as could sobs and coughs. Nobody could tell the difference between defender or attacker, for both sides were united in their horror at the inferno destroying the three-hundred-year-old city. It seemed that the defenders had not been warned of their king's terrible plot. _

_A figure staggered across the street. The person's gender and their origin couldn't be discovered, for they were engulfed in wildfire. A blazing trail followed in their wake. They sobbed, collapsing to their knees and seizing in agony. One brave archer fired at the poor soul, the arrow going straight through their chest and ending their suffering, though the flames continued to spread._

_"What is this?" Princess Lysara demanded of the panicked King Aegon, her grey eyes wide as she, Prince Oberyn, Aegon and his guard, Ser Barristan, crouched near to the ground, attempting to avoid breathing in any smoke. The princess' guard, Ygritte of the Free Folk, was dead already, pushing her princess out of the way of a section of wall that had collapsed from the flames. She was one of many lost Winterlander soldiers. The princess had tears in her eyes that were only partially from the smoke, and a small portion at that. "What have those lunatics done?!"_

_"It's wildfire!" Aegon cried back, his eyes wide. "By the Gods, they are truly mad! Do they not understand what they have done?" _

_"How do we put it out?" The Princess cried, ducking a jet of green fire that flew disconcertingly close to her head. "The water will not affect it!"_

_"We can't!" Prince Oberyn exclaimed. "Wildfire is created by the Alchemists' Guild, through some form of magic! It burns everything it touches, only time will end it! Any attempts to smother the blaze will only feed it!"_

_"We must fall back, Your Graces!" Ser Barristan urged. "The city is lost, we must go!"_

_"These are my people!" Aegon argued back. "I cannot abandon them all to die!"_

_"They're dead already!" His uncle snapped back, looking around. "We must retreat, or all of us and our forces are lost too!"_

_The princess settled the matter. "Retreat!" She yelled, coughing as she inhaled some smoke. "Retreat!" She pounded her hip-drum, signalling the order to fall back, not that many hadn't already started to fall back already._

_But both the city and the army were in chaos as everyone tried to flee, people being trampled carelessly, or shoved aside into the flames as people sacrificed strangers to try and save themselves and their loved ones._

_The group of royals fell back as best they could, only to end up pinned in a street, wildfire surrounding them._

_"We are lost," the princess declared grimly. Her shoulders slumped and she made a triquetra with her finger, whispering a prayer. "Gods guide us to the next world," Lysara sighed resignedly. She unsheathed her dagger and braced the tip of the weapon against her throat._

_"Sara, no-" Prince Oberyn began to object. She silenced him with a kiss._

_"I am glad this happened, that I might have been given more time with you, my love," she murmured. "We are lost, you know it as well as I do. Better a quick, painless death than a slow, agonizing one, no?"_

_He closed his eyes tightly shut and pulled her into his arms, putting his own dagger to his neck. King Aegon and Ser Barristan too prepared to copy the lovers' actions._

_Still locked in a kiss, the Princess and Prince slit their own throats together, as the southron King too took his own life, his faithful guard copying the act not a full second later. Moments later, the green fire finally reached them, engulfing their bodies in flame and creating a ball of fire that took out the entire section of wall the group had ended up pinned against._

_**'No' **_Alivia wept as she watched the terrible scene shift to show the Starks receiving word of the massacre, the southron queens both collapsing in grief and little Magnara Mariah crying for her mother and father as King Eddard vowed vengeance for his eldest daughter and nephew's deaths._** 'No! This cannot be! This **__**must**__** not be! Help me, guide me, please Gods! Let me stop it! How can I stop this horror? Please!'**_

More visions flashed across her vision, and when her eyes snapped open, Alivia understood what had to be done to win the war.

"Well?" Dorren asked gruffly. "What did you see?"

"You are panting, catch your breath my friend," Jessa urged.

"What's wrong, what happened?" Ariella pressed, brow wrinkled in concern. Alivia trembled. Her face was clammy, and her breath came in gasps. It felt as if she had been burning with her princess and people. She could smell the awful stench of flesh burning, feel the fire licking at her skin and the smoke filling her lungs. She shuddered, trying to regain her sense of self and reality. That was the problem with Circle visions. They were so realistic, it was as if you were actually living out the scenes you dreamt.

"Alivia?" Jojen asked concernedly. "What did you see?"

"Unless I speak to Her Highness immediately, catastrophe," Alivia stated, tone grim, having finally regained her senses, though a strong sense of urgency burned within her. She scrambled to her feet, her braid beating against the small of her back as she raced towards the command tent, her companions on her heels.


	23. Capturing the Castle

**Disclaimer: I don't own ASoIaF/GoT. Well, guys, I'd say this is the second last chapter. Next one will be the epilogue, I believe. At most there'll be two more chapters if needed.**

**I hate Cersei, but I actually feel a bit bad for her here. Hopefully this chapter is okay. I'm not too good at battles and stuff, so I tend to skim over them. I wasn't very happy with this chapter, but I couldn't improve it.**

**Thank you to all my wonderful reviewers. Keeping reading, enjoying and reviewing!**

**Chapter Twenty-Two**

**Capturing the Castle**

_**The Red Keep: 23**__**rd**__** October, 303 AC**_

_Sara:_

"This way," Aegon murmured in a low tone, turning to the right fork of the crossroads they had come to.

Everyone from the south had been appalled by the greenseers' announcement that the lions had hidden caches of something called 'wildfire' all throughout King's Landing in an attempt to destroy the besieging army. Appalled and panicked.

Sara's people had not understood their reactions, at first. What was so frightening about this fire? They were, after all, right beside a bay full of water that they could use to dose the blaze. Then the southrons had explained what wildfire was, that it mimicked dragonfire and would burn until it dosed itself, that even a river of water would only increase its' intensity, not dampen it. That had been horrifying to hear. Sara wondered why none of the Tarygaryens had ever used it against her people in one of their many wars against each other, and Aegon had explained that it had been invented late in his grandsire, Aerys the Mad's reign.

It seemed that the lioness couldn't even be original, as she had taken the idea from Aerys. The difference was that Aerys had never gotten the chance to actually have the wildfire he planned to use to 'turn into a dragon' created. Rhaegar had staged his coup and locked his father away in Dragonstone before the Mad King had gotten the chance to go through with his insane plan.

Thankfully, Alivia had had the sense to search for a way around the deadly trap, and informed them that, to win the war and prevent Cersei and Aenar from having the pyromancers unleash the deadly inferno, they would have to use a sneak attack. Some of the southrons had grumbled about cowardice and honour, but none of them had been able to refute Robb's point that at least if they were alive they'd be able to regain their precious honour, and a painful death via burning in a fire along with everyone else in the city that they allowed to ignite would destroy their honour and _leave _it that way.

Now, there they were, a small group made up of both southrons and northrons, sneaking into the Red Keep via one of the many secret passages installed by Maegor the Cruel. Personally, Sara thought that the Red Keep ought to be burned to the ground and rebuilt. The current castle was surely cursed, given that Maegor had ordered its' builders murdered after they had completed their tasks. Maybe that contributed to the Targaryens' insanity as well as their arrogant claims of being exceptions to the Gods' laws and their incest.

Another group, larger and led by General Umber and Ser Something Arryn, Aegon's goodbrother, had also used the passageways to get inside the city, but their task was to get into the wall barracks and seize control of the gates, opening them to allow the Winterlander Army to enter unhindered by the City Watch and Westerlands' reinforcements.

But that was irrelevant right now. What_ was _relevant was that they were about to sneak into the keep and seize control of it from the inside. From Alivia's visions, only Cersei, Aenar, and the leaders of the Alchemists' Guild knew about the wildfire. The rest of the Guild had been given excuses, and were unlikely to support the act (given that going through with it would mean their own deaths as well). As such, they needed to capture the leaders themselves, and then the rest of the defending army would lay down arms, or if they fought, they wouldn't know of the wildfire nor would they go to ignite it.

Capture Cersei, Aenar and Hallyne, and they would win the war.

"These tunnels are like a maze," Robb grumbled in complaint, clutching his sword tightly. "What lunatic came up with the idea for them? Not even Winterfell has such a complicated system!"

That was true, but there _were_, however, at _least_ one passage in nearly every room, and at irregular intervals in the halls. It had been attacked, burned and rebuilt more times than could be counted throughout the many millennia since Brandon the Builder had raised the original keep, and every time it was renovated more passages were added to give the residents ways to escape. Some had been forgotten, and not all of the known ones were useable, of course, but enough were to be useful, and the secrets of their locations were known only to the members of the main House and to the Warg Warriors, to maintain the integrity of the passages.

"They were built by Maegor the Cruel, the Conqueror's youngest son," Aegon explained lowly. "He suffered from the madness that plagues my family, and ordered the keep be riddled with passages, so as to be able to escape any assassins. Not even my family know more than a handful of them."

"Where does this one lead?" Sara inquired softly. She knew it led deep into what they called Maegor's Holdfast, but not the exact location of their exit.

"To the royal apartments," this time it was Ser Barristan who answered. "We will come out of the wall in the king's bedchamber."

"It is late," Oberyn added. "Like as not, Aenar will be abed and we can capture him with ease."

It would have to be a capture, if possible. Insane and hated he may have been, but Aenar was still Aegon's blood, and they wanted to avoid him being tainted with the label of kinslayer. If necessary, however, they would do what had to be done.

"We must not become over-confident," Paladin Maege Mormont warned. "Arrogance has killed more warriors than any blade ever could."

"Indeed, you are correct, Paladin," Sara's lover acknowledged.

"We're nearly there," Aegon announced. "Just around the next corner, at the bottom."

Sara inhaled and exhaled deeply, centring herself and preparing for battle. They had been forced to leave the wolves behind, as they were too large to fit in the tunnels, and she felt bereft without Taibhse's reassuring presence at her side. Oberyn swooped down to give a quick but passionate kiss, before pulling away and adjusting his grip on his spear. She felt a small smile flicker across her face. She had come to terms with and accepted her love for him, and now there was a peace in her that she had not felt before.

She glanced around, taking in the small group quickly. Herself, Robb, Oberyn, Aegon, Sers Barristan and Oswell, and Paladins Maege Mormont and Serena Whitewolf, Maege's loyal apprentice. Everyone was doing some last-minute checks as they ensured everything was ready and their weapons were sharp. The wait was over.

They had arrived at the entrance.

* * *

_Aegon:_

The death of the falsely proclaimed King of the Seven Kingdoms did not take long. Aenar had been fast asleep in bed when they sneaked into his bedchamber as quiet as mice. He screamed loudly for the guards when Aegon put his sword to his neck and whispered for him to "Wake up, little brother". The false whitecloaks guarding his doorway had come rushing in, but quickly been taken out by Aegon's uncle and Ser Barristan. Meanwhile, the rest of them had been occupied securing Aenar, though things had not turned out as they hoped.

Aenar, despite his cowardice, had fought back on instinct. Paladin Whitewolf had reacted first, having been closest to Aegon's side when Aenar had lunged at him wildly with a dagger (its hilt was very gaudy, made of gold in the form of a roaring lion with glinting ruby eyes. No doubt the Winterlanders were sneering at the useless, ostentatious nature of it. Perhaps they had rubbed off on him more than he had realized, because Aegon was exasperated by the thing also). Despite his lack of skill, Aenar would very likely have successfully managed to kill Aegon, striking him right in the back of his unguarded neck when he turned away for a moment to speak with Princess Lysara, if not for the paladin's intervention. As it was, Paladin Whitewolf spotted his brother's actions, and she intercepted the attack with her sword, disarming Aenar with one swift movement and then, before anybody could react, shoved her weapon deep into his chest, and then twisting it to yank the blade out of his brother's choking body. Aenar had crumpled into a heap, face forever frozen in an expression of wide-eyed shock and disbelief.

It was a terribly ignominious death, and would cause problems, as many would think they had set out to kill him, but Aegon had no time to react or dwell as just then, the other guards had finally responded, much too late. The two whitecloaks died quickly alongside the redcloaks who joined them, and Aegon made a mental note to have all of their names removed from the White Book, for they were not true members of the Kingsguard, and unworthy of the honours accorded to the members of the Order.

The noise made when Aenar was captured and subsequently killed, and the sounds of the guards fighting Aegon's group drew more opponents to them. The sheer amount of redcloaks was difficult to deal with, but they had a good position, holding their places around the door so that their enemies was forced to come in one or two at a time, quickly meeting the Stranger by one of Aegon's people's hands.

While the others of their group fought the redcloaks, Aegon slipped away with his uncle and the princess to find and capture Cersei and Wisdom Hallyne.

They found her in the throne room, ordering the leader of the pyromancers to light the caches, the other two false Kingsguard at the bottom of the dais (Jaime Lannister had, apparently, fled with Valaena and Aelyx. They would have to be found, and soon, for they were threats as long as they were free).

"Burn them!" Cersei demanded from where she sat on the Iron Throne, her voice and expression wild with rage and insanity. It seemed the stress of the siege had done in the last remaining fragments of her sanity. Aegon had always expected it to happen one day. She had forever been delusional, after all, daring to believe herself more worthy of the title of Queen than his caring and beloved mother, and that her mad son would make a better king than he, something not even her own father had believed to be a possibility, else he'd have tried to kill Aegon years ago.

"Burn all of those savages and usurpers to death!" She cried to Hallyne, who was bowing. Aegon imagined that his grandfather Aerys had made a similar picture, all those years ago when his father had preformed his coup and seized control of the Iron Throne."May they all rot in the seven hells where they belong!"

"We would not go to your precious seven hells," Sara scoffed, making the pair's heads snap in their direction, horror and shock forming on their faces. "Were our souls damned, we should be bound for the Dungeons of the Otherworld. But fear not, Mad Lioness. You will get to see your sacred seven hells soon enough."

Hallyne bolted for the door, while Cersei screamed at the whitecloaked guards protecting her (or whatever they was doing. Clearly they were both lacking in the brains department, as they'd simply been gawping at them since Sara's first word, making no attempt to take on the people coming to capture-or kill, if Sara was the one to reach her first- their queen) to defend her and kill the trio.

In silent agreement, the Princess went after Hallyne, while Uncle Oberyn stepped back to take on the second guard while protecting the entrance they had come through, leaving the area free for Aegon to take out the first guard and capture his so-called stepmother.

His sword clashed against the knight's own weapon, and he knew immediately that he was the superior fighter. The portly man was sweating profusely already and panting, his strikes were weak and slow. But, as all Aegon's teachers had reminded him many times, all it took was a slippery patch of ground at the wrong time and he'd be killed by a half-trained page.

He treated the man as cautiously as he would treat an opponent as skilled as Ser Barristan himself, successfully blocking his strikes and putting the other swordsman (if he was really worthy of the title) on the backfoot. Finally, using a manoeuvre from Essos that he had learned from Oberyn, he twisted the sword out of the other knight's hand and, with a final strike, took the man's head off.

That done, Aegon turned on his younger sibling's mother.

* * *

_Cersei:_

Cersei glared bitterly at her stepson, damning him to the deepest, darkest depths of the seven hells, along with his weak mother, his bitch of a sister, grasping whore of a wife and all of his heathen, tree worshipping Winterlander allies.

Her enemies had _won_, and she couldn't understand how they had done so. Why had the Gods aided them? She had never been a religious woman, but both of her parents had assured her that the Seven intended for her to be the vessel that set Lannister blood on the Iron Throne, ensured they would forever be the most powerful of the Great Houses. She had been so close to achieving her destiny of installing a Dynasty of Lions in the Kingdoms. But things had started going wrong when her father had died, worsened when Jaime took her younger children, and now they were completely in tatters. All hope was lost. She prayed that her son was safe. No doubt Aegon would seek to eliminate his rival, knowing Aenar was the preferable choice for king.

"Curse you!" She spat. "Curse you to hell and back! Aenar is the rightful king!"

"Aenar is dead," Aegon informed her flatly.

She felt her heart stop, and she shook her head in desperate denial. "You're lying!" She screamed. "You lie! Not my son! Liar!"

His expression seemed to soften a fraction. "I do not lie, Lady Lannister," he answered quietly. She ignored his incorrect address. She was _Queen Regent_ Cersei, not _Lady_ Lannister. But the topic of her son's continued breath outweighed all else, so she ignored it. "We intended to capture him and place him on trial for his crimes, but he attacked me and one of my group was forced to kill him in my defence." Cersei could not deny it anymore. He had a look of almost sympathy for her in his purple eyes, and the barbarian and Dornish manwhore looked, to her eyes, to be almost smug.

"Kinslayer!" She wailed. "Brother-killer!" She jumped from her seat on the Iron Throne, lunging at him and hitting him with her fists, thinking only of making him suffer the same pain she was feeling. "You will pay for this!" She cried as hands encircled her arms and pulled her away from her stepson, whose expression had gone stony. "I will kill you! Kinslayer! Kinslayer! I will kill you if it is the last thing I ever do!"

She was dragged away, still screaming curses and threats, and taken to a plain tower room where she was locked in. She fell to her knees, hitting the floor and screaming threats against Aegon, Elia, Rhaenys and everyone who dared defy the Lannisters until she fell unconscious, tears streaming down her cheeks as she dreamed of the world that should have been, where she reigned supreme, her children surrounding her and Jaime at her side as her father and mother both beamed at her with pride, the Imp, Elia Martell and her brats having never drawn breath.

"_Five for him and three for you. Gold shall be their crowns and gold their shrouds," _Maggy the Frog had said to her, all those years ago. "_And when your tears have drowned you, the valonqar shall wrap his hands about your pale white throat and choke the life from you."_

To her knowledge, Valaena and Aelyx lived still, though their hair was indeed gold and they had indeed worn worn actual gold crowns. But her golden boy, her Aenar, was dead, and she was indeed drowning in her tears.

Soon, the Imp would likely come and choke her to death, as she had been sure he would since his birth had murdered her beautiful mother, and in the midst of her grief at losing her children and crown in one fell swoop, Cersei almost wanted it.


	24. Epilogue

**Disclaimer: I don't own ASoIaF/GoT. This is it, the end of Princess of Wolves, Prince of Snakes. I'm delighted it was so well-liked, I loved writing it! Thank you all so much for your support!**

**Epilogue**

_**The Red Keep: 25th**__**October, 303 AC**_

_Cersei:_

Cersei paced her small cell agitatedly, pausing to shoot a bitter glare at her surroundings. In deference to her high birth and gender, she had not been placed in the Black Cells, but neither had she been put in accommodations befitting the rightful Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, either. Her so-called 'room' was in a tower in Maegor's Holdfast, about half the size of her closet in her regular rooms. There was nothing in it save a small bed more fit for a lowborn servant than a noble lady, with a straw mattress, pillow and wool blanket, and in the corner there was a stand on which a jug and wash basin sat. A chamber pot was in the other corner. She didn't even have a fresh pair of clothes, and her dinner the night before had some bread and cheese with a goblet of wine.

It was outrageous. She was Cersei Targaryen of House Lannister, Queen of the Seven Kingdoms and the Lady of Casterly Rock, even if that part was not official. How dare they treat her thusly?

It _wasn't_ over, it could not be. Cersei began pacing again, trying to figure out her next move. She had been angry when Jaime took Valaena and Aelyx away, but now she felt nought but relief. Because of her brother's defiance, there was hope yet. Val was pregnant with Aenar's heir, and even if she bore a girl, there was still Aelyx. Her little lion cub was young and sweet, but once she turned her attention to readying him to ascend the Iron Throne, he would soon show his claws. She just needed to escape and get to them, then they could rally their forces. That Aegon had allied himself with those tree worshipping barbarians, their ancient enemies, would surely work against him politically.

She jumped in surprise when a section of the wall moved and Oberyn Martell and Varys, the damn Spider, entered.

"My thanks for your aid, Lord Varys," the Dornishman stated, his dark eyes fixed on her. Cersei glared at him, drawing herself up and sneering at them both. "It is much appreciated, and I shall remember your help."

"Always glad to be of service to the Crown, Your Highness," Varys responded, bowing slightly to the Viper. "I shall wait for you to finish in the passage."

"What do you want?" Cersei sneered at the prince once the Master of Whispers was gone. For a moment she felt a jolt of fear, wondering if he was here to kill her, then dismissed the possibility. Oberyn Martell was a savage Dornish fool, but he was a knight all the same, and he had a strict code of honour. He would not kill a woman. Besides, Maggy the Frog had warned her that the Imp would be the one to kill her. It was not Oberyn Martell that she had to fear.

Martell studied her with an intense gaze before answering. "Do you love your brother, Lady Cersei?" He inquired in an almost idle tone. "Not the Imp, of course. Everybody knows how you feel about him. But your twin. Jaime."

"Of course I do!" Cersei bit back, outraged. "Jaime is my twin, my other half. When I am with him, I'm complete. Of course I love him."

The Viper nodded slowly. "Then," he said lowly. "You know how I feel about Elia."

Cersei froze, a tremble of worry creeping into her mind. Valonqar. Little brother. Oberyn Martell was the youngest of the three children of the late Princess Loreza Martell and her consort.

"My sister," Martell sighed. "She has ever been my dearest companion, my best friend. We are but a year apart in age, you know. She was always frail, having been born a moon early, but she is a Martell still. Unbowed, Unbent, Unbroken. She fought through illness after illness as a child, grew beautiful and kind, the Sun of Dorne. She may not be strong in body, but in mind and heart, she is as fierce as any warrior I have crossed blades with, if not fiercer. Every lord and knight in Dorne sought her hand, and many outside of it also.

And then, Mother announced that she had arranged for my sweet sister to wed Rhaegar Targaryen. And for a while, Elia loved him. He was, after all, the Silver Prince, the man who would save our kingdom from Aerys' madness. What lady could not help but fall in love with him? Twice, she put her life on the line to birth Rhaenys and Aegon, yet he cared nought a jot for her. He humiliated her the day he announced his betrothal to you, and I have never felt such rage as that night, when she wept in my arms after the shame he dealt her."

His expression darkened and his fists clenched as he spoke of it. Cersei found herself unable to speak. It was as if her throat had closed over.

"As years went by, I watched the way Elia was beaten down by you, by Rhaegar, the court," Oberyn continued, his tone full of cold anger. "And I raged at the injustice, but there was nothing I could do to shield her. I, her brother who swore to protect her, could do nothing to protect her."

"And now you can, is that it?" Cersei interrupted at last. She forced out a laugh. "You wish to kill me, I suppose? To avenge the supposed slight to your weak, savage sister's precious honour?"

"Yes," Oberyn answered mildly. Cersei felt herself go weak. She had not expected him to be so blunt about it.

She shook her head in denial. "You will not," she gasped out, eyes darting around rapidly. "I am a lady! I am Queen-"

"No, you are not," he cut her off, sounding almost bored. "And I will. Your title, I should remind you, has never been that of Queen, but of Princess Consort. And lady you may be, but I have always been of the opinion that a woman's gender does not make her less. I trained my daughters as warriors, I am deeply in love with a woman who sits at the head of armies and will be Queen of the Winterlands in her own right one day. You have always been resentful of the limitations placed on you by society due to your sex, surely you should be glad that I am not allowing it to keep me from treating you as I would treat any man who dared cause my sweet sister such pain?" He gave her a mocking smile.

She backed away as he stalked towards her. "GUARDS!" She cried desperately. "GUARDS!"

"Scream all you like," Martell said darkly and coldly. "But they will not come. Both were my squires, and they are loyal to their Princess Elia and her children." Then, before Cersei could do more, he grabbed her throat, and she felt him cut off her breath, her vision darkening into black.

"Enjoy the seven hells, Cersei," Martell told her as she died. "You will see your father and son there. And, I cannot let you die without telling you: my nephew has declared House Lannister forfeit. All the of age males will be either imprisoned or executed, the women sent to the Silent Sisters. The young boys will all go to become septons or maesters, and the girls will be wed to loyal lords, to ensure that your House is ground to dust. House Lannister's precious legacy will be that of a warning to those who would seek to take what is not theirs: Cross the Targaryens, and you will receive Fire and Blood."

Those were the last words Cersei Lannister ever heard, as she succumbed to blackness and went limp in the Red Viper's grip.

* * *

_Oberyn:_

Sara was waiting for him, naked in their bed, when he returned. She gave him a seductive smile as he joined her in bed, hooking one of her legs over his and adjusting herself so they were both on their sides, face-to-face.

"Is it done?" She asked him in a low tone.

"Aye, it's done," he murmured in reply. "Did you speak to your greenseers of the White Lion and Cersei's younger children?"

"I did," she confirmed. "But they are not threats to Aegon's throne. They have gone to the Free Cities, where all visions show them living out their lives peacefully and quietly, never admitting even to their spouses whom they were here in Westeros. I think it best to let sleeping dogs lie."

"Yes, you may be right," Oberyn agreed. She arched an eyebrow at him, lips twitching slightly.

"I _may_ be right?" She repeated with mock offence. "_May_? Outrageous, how dare you speak to the Crown Princess of Winter thusly?"

He felt a smirk grow on his own lips, feeling the lingering traces of guilt he felt at murdering Cersei, nothing very strong and without any traces of regret at his actions, evaporate entirely. Cersei had been a threat as long as she lived, and given her gender, at worst she would've been sent to the Silent Sisters. She had needed to be dealt with, and he had done so. He had staged it as a suicide, to ensure that Aegon would not be tainted by anymore rumours than necessary. Thankfully, most southrons easily believed that a Winterlander would murder Aenar, so there were no accusations of kinslaying being flung about.

"Pray forgive me, my princess," he purred. "I beseech you, tell me how I might redeem myself?"

She grinned mischievously and moved closer. "I can think of a few ways for you to regain my favour," she said, before pressing her lips to his as he flipped them over to hover above her slim frame.

* * *

_**The Isle of Faces: December 12th, 304 AC**_

_Aegon:_

The Isle of Faces was Winterlander territory, fiercely guarded by the First Men, given it was the headquarters of the Greenseers and sacred ground, a veritable forest of weirwood trees. It was from here that most saplings were taken to be planted in fresh godswoods, here was where, for the past two centuries since Cregan had captured it, the Winterlanders crowned their monarchs and where the Greenseers taught their students.

The Isle of Faces was also the location his distant uncle, Brynden "Bloodraven" Ravenstar, born Rivers, had chosen to spend his last years.

As promised, he had arranged with Ariella Ravenstar to visit, over a year after the capture of King's Landing. With Aenar and Cersei dead and Val and Aelyx missing in the Free Cities and making no attempts to regain the Iron Throne (many believed they were quietly killed, but nobody said a word openly about it), the Westerlander forces had been quick to surrender, knowing their cause was hopeless and unjustified. After that there had been a series of trials to discover whom had sided with the Lannisters under duress and who had done so willingly, the matter of naming a new Lord Paramount and Warden of the West (eventually, after much debate, the title had been given to Lord Sebaston Farman, whose family had always been loyal to the Targaryens and who was known to dislike the Lannisters, though his oaths had forced him to obey his liege lord. However, he had managed to avoid sending any men to join the Westerland troops that had marched to fight Aegon's own army, excusing it as being due to his family seat being on an island. That had been a large part in why he had not suffered so badly, though the war debt imposed on the West was probably punishment enough for the man.).

There'd also been the happier occasions of his mother's marriage to Paladin Dayne, and the wedding of Princess Lysara to her betrothed, Magnar Edderion, and just the regular problems that came with a change of reigns, especially such a tense one as that, not to mention concerns raised among Aegon's nobles about the new alliance between the two halves of Westeros. The announcement of Daeron's future marriage to an as-yet unborn daughter of Princess Lysara, to seal the alliance, hadn't made anybody any happier either.

But now, a year and two months after seizing King's Landing back from his usurping younger brother, Aegon was at last secure enough in position of King to leave the capital on a progress, during which he would visit the Isle of Faces and meet with his four-greats uncle.

That was what he was doing now. Only Ser Barristan was attending him, much to the Lord Commander's dismay, and they were met at the dock by Aegon's distant cousin.

Ariella wore the simple woollen robes of a Greenwoman, her tree-shaped pendant dangling between her breasts. Her stomach was swollen from pregnancy, though to Aegon's knowledge she had no husband or even a regular lover. From his discussions with the Winterlanders, however, he knew that her child would likely be considered her heir anyway. To the Winterlanders, a child was meant to be born, and it hardly mattered if it was within or without the confines of marriage vows. The Snows typically came behind their trueborn siblings in matters of succession, but there was no shame in being or bearing one. The surname difference was a relatively new thing, as well, and one that the people of the North rarely paid attention to.

His Sand cousins had been flourishing in the northron court, save for some complaints regarding the cold weather. They had sent many letters, delighting in how neither their gender nor their bastardy affected how people there saw them. They did receive some prejudice, but it was due to them being from the south (the taint of centuries of war could not be wiped away so easily as they wished, unfortunately), not due to anything else.

"Greetings, Aegon the Peace-Maker, Cousin," she greeted him, bowing her head respectfully. "You are welcome to the Isle of Faces. You and your guard must leave your weapons here. This is sacred ground, and no weapon, be it steel or stone, may be brought any further."

Ser Barristan grumbled, but followed Aegon's order to leave his sword and knife with Aegon's own in the small boat they had rowed to the island on.

"Greetings, Cousin," Aegon said as he fell into step with Ariella, who immediately began guiding them to the small village. It was barely five minutes walk from the pier, surrounded by a wall of weirwood and full of tiny huts with people in the robes of the Greenseers going to and fro. Ariella took them to one at the far end of the distance. Despite her state and the muggy weather, she seemed indifferent to any discomfort, making her way down the dirt path with all the grace of a queen.

Finally she stopped outside a small hut made of weirwood with a thatched roof, gesturing at the faded curtain that served as a door. "In here," she murmured. "He is waiting for you."

Aegon nodded solemnly, gesturing for Barristan to remain outside before ducking within.

Lying on the pallet in the corner was a man older than any other in Westeros. His skin was pale as that of the Northron snows, and seemed paper thin, allowing the blue veins to shine eerily in the dark. On Aegon's entrance, he turned his head and opened his eyes to reveal crimson orbs that sent shivers down the young king's spine.

"Egg," he croaked out. "Aegon Targaryen, Sixth of His Name, King of the Andals and the Rhoynar, Protector of the Faith, the Peace-Maker Dragon. The king who has ended centuries of war with the Winterlanders. Come closer, Nephew, that I might see you properly."


End file.
